


Until the End

by Oopsynini



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Asexual Mycroft Holmes, BAMF John Watson, Beta Mycroft Holmes, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, Grumpy John Watson, Kidnapping, M/M, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, No Heats, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega John Watson, PTSD John, Platonic Mycroft & John Watson, Pre-Zombie Apocalypse, Smut, Zombies, questionable medicine, questionable science
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23350207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oopsynini/pseuds/Oopsynini
Summary: John is on the high of his life after he and Sherlock finally admit to their feelings for each other. Only for it to come crashing down around him when Sherlock disappears. Left alone to pick up the pieces of Sherlock's last case he enlists the assistance of Mycroft Holmes,. Their hunt for answers digs them deep into a dark web of human trafficking, murder, and medical experimentation. When John himself is taken against his will he has no choice but to find a way to bring down those who would do them harm. Especially when he discovers a small surprise is growing inside him. The only question is, can he do it in time to save the rest of the world from a sinister disease that has the potential to wreak havoc and destroy society?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 130
Kudos: 143





	1. Petrichor and Thunderstorms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Readers! This fic is currently in the process of being rewritten. It was my very first fic, and I've learned a lot since I started it. Rereading it, it doesn't quite meet the quality I want, and since I want to actually finish it, I'm going to start reposting it sometime soon with a revised link provided. Until then, it will continue to wallow in its unfinished state. BUT! It's not forgotten, I do plan on completing it, and I'm working on the revised storyline so that I can do just that. 
> 
> I'll give the link once I start posting the new story!

John woke to the rocking sway of the bed as Sherlock shifted beside him. Moments before, there had been the telltale sound of his phone chiming. Now, there was mostly the enveloping warmth of Sherlock's skin as he reached across John’s body to grab the cellphone from the bedside table. John grumbled drowsily, shoving at the expanse of Sherlock’s thin chest in an effort to get some breathing room back. He was far too aware of what had happened the night before to be confused as to why he was in Sherlock's bed, but it couldn’t be past dawn, and he’d been looking forward to a bit of a sleep-in. The delicious aches and pains in his body were testament enough for a couple of hours more rest.

Above him, Sherlock let out a deep rumble of a chuckle, obviously not feeling the same way. “Come now, John,” He purred, and John sighed as he felt lips descend onto the pale expanse of his neck, soft, warm breath brushing against his skin as the other man scented him lightly. Sherlock seemed pleased with what he smelled, given the sweet rumbling sound of approval that vibrated against John’s neck. John hummed back, still too drowsy to open his eyes, but more than happy to arch his neck and offer more of it for the other man to examine. Sherlock seemed to appreciate the display of submission, the alpha in him no doubt pleased by it. Plump lips trailed up John’s throat, warm and damp, then he pressed a kiss to John’s mouth. He smelled slightly of last night's brandy and morning breath.

John wrinkled his nose and chuckled against the other man’s lips, finally squinting one eye open enough to peer up into Sherlock’s mischievous eyes. They were blue today, like the morning sky. His mop of black hair tousled by last night's ministrations, and he looked positively edible.

Beside his head, Sherlock’s phone chimed again. Neither of them paid it any mind.

He can’t help but stare into those lovely eyes, examine high cheekbones, and sharp features unhindered now that he has permission to look. Why had he never noticed the small beauty mark above Sherlock’s left brow? When had that thin little scar appeared on Sherlock’s cheek?

“Hmm…aren’t you lovely.” John croaks, his voice still hazy from sleepy.

“I just woke up, John. It’s hardly the time.” Sherlock protested with a roll of his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to mind the compliment otherwise. Instead, moving to dig the bed covers out and away from where John had tucked them around himself during the night.

“Mmm… if ever there was a time to compliment you, it’d be now, darling.” John can’t help but respond, his words turning into a sharp yelp as the fresh morning air slapped against his skin.

“You’re a damn hog, by the way.” He grumbled, tossing the covers to the side so he can get an eyeful of John unhindered by something so meaningless as a duvet.

Sherlock’s phone chimes again, perhaps a little more persistent.

He shivered as his bare skin exposed to the predawn light. John was at home in his body, comfortable and self-assured. Sure he’d seen himself in the mirror often enough to know he was not the most magnificent sight to behold. Even for an omega, he was short. While he exercised consistently, his muscles had started to soften slightly with age. He had more scars than most omega’s should, but he’d earned those, so he could hardly complain about that.

Sherlock didn't mind, though, not now and most certainly not last night. Instead, he eyed John like he was one of his cases, something worthy of capturing all of his attention, a puzzle to be appreciated and examined. The heady scent of arousal tinged the air with the smell of thunder and cut grass, that, combined with Sherlock’s natural petrichor scent, made John feel as though he was in the middle of a storm.

“John…you have no idea how long I have been waiting to see you like this,” Sherlock admitted, sitting back on his heels, crouched among the sheets and bedding. God, his name on Sherlock’s lips had never sounded so good. The hand Sherlock runs down John’s nude hip is like a brand, rough and hot. John swallows hard and shifts on the bed, arching his hips up against the pressure of Sherlock’s hands to get more of that skin on skin contact. Sherlock’s pupils were blown at the sight. John could not believe something so simple could make him feel so damn sexy.

“Christ, don’t look at a man like that.” John chuckled out, flopping a hand over his eyes to cover the blush that blossomed bright up his cheeks. God, he hated compliments. They made his stomach do funny things.

“Oh, is my omega shy?” Sherlock crooned, his voice far too deep to take on such a high tone.

“Your omega, huh?” John chuckled past the swell of his arm, his breath hitching in his throat at the idea.

“Mmm…most certainly, mine.” Sherlock purred after a moment of consideration, shifting to stretch his body out above Johns, his longer frame arched to accommodate John’s smaller stature.

“Now, come here and give me a kiss.” He commanded, tugging with long fingers at John’s arm to uncover his face. John complied, but only because he has been wanting the same thing.

Eagerly he reached for the other man, his fingers tangling in black locks and tugging Sherlock down until their lips meet with a spark of pent-up desire. Sherlock lets him lead, eagerly seeking out John’s lips with a sharp clash of teeth that spoke of two people who still did not quite know each other's bodies yet.

Above John’s head, Sherlock’s phone began to chime in earnest, and Sherlock groaned, breaking the kiss with a sigh of regret.

“I should get that.” He mumbled against John’s lips, reaching for his phone with one hand, the other holding himself above John’s body with surprising ease.

“What?!” He snaps into the phone, rolling his eyes at John by way of an apology for the interruption. John groans at the sound of Mycroft’s voice on the other side of the line.

“Go on then,” He whispers, shoving at Sherlock until the lanky man gives in and rolls off of him. Rolling onto his belly, he drags the duvet back up to cover himself from the morning chill and burrows himself thoroughly into the pillows to block out the sound of the brother’s grousing at each other. He does not doubt that their lovely morning will be interrupted by Sherlock’s esteemed older brother. Sherlock had been chasing a case for the last several months, with very few leads and no physical evidence that even his brilliant mind could find. If Mycroft was calling, it was because there was finally some evidence to be found.

“Very well, Mycroft, I will be there in thirty minutes.” Sherlock’s voice does not sound all that eager, even though there is a new development in his case, and John smiles at that. He likes that he stands a chance against a good mystery.

“John?! Mycroft has a break in the case!” His excitement is contagious, and John peers out from his pillows, a grin chasing the edge of his lips.

“Shall we get dressed?” He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow in return, a dark, sad look twisting his features as he shook his head. It was the same look John had been treated to the night before, moments before they'd taken this surprising next step in their relationship.

“Hardly necessary, I’ll text you later instead. It’s just preliminaries at this point,” Sherlock explained, his eyes roving over what little of John he could see through the blankets. “I’d rather you slept in after last night.” He admitted, a flush appearing high on his cheekbones.

John laughed aloud at that, shaking his head. “I’m an omega Sherlock; we’re built to take a good shagging.” Despite his protests, though, he does not bother getting up from the bed when Sherlock does. He was proper exhausted after yesterday's stint at St. Bart’s and even more so after their escapades the night before.

The sounds of Sherlock getting ready lulled him into a drowsy half-sleep. He listened to the scuffle of the other man moving through his closet and putting on his clothes. The splash of water on the bathroom sink and the sound of shoes being kicked into place were familiar enough that he barely noticed them, despite the fact he wasn’t in his bed.

A sudden weight landing on top of him sent the breath wheezing out from his lungs, and he choked back a laugh as he felt nothing but sharp elbows and knees digging into his belly and shoulders. Long fingers scrambled to slink the bedclothes from around John’s face. “I’m off, John,” Sherlock announced, his face peering into the hollow he’d created.

John snorted his own blue eyes, wrinkling at the corners. “Get off with you than you, madman!” He commanded and just managed to swing a pillow at the detective’s retreating back, laughing when it tangled in Sherlock’s Belstaff.

“Message me, and we’ll meet for lunch!” He shouted, his request muffled by the sound of the door slamming closed and Sherlock’s retreating steps.


	2. Black Tea and Tangerines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for unreasonable morning afterglow and adorable fluff.

“Mycroft, you fat arse! I know you’re in there, open up, or I’m going to tear this fucking door down!” John shouted. The sound of John’s fist banging on the opulent wood of Mycroft Holmes town-home was loud enough to wake the neighbors, but John hardly noticed. He knocked and knocked until his knuckles began to hurt. John didn't care if he woke up the whole neighborhood, he was going to be heard, dammit! With a grimace of frustration, he took to kicking at the varnished wood with the toe of his loafers. His fingers clenched into tight fists at his sides.

Inside he caught the sound of footsteps approaching and heaved a sigh of relief, dragging a hand through his hair to ease the mess of it he had made. Greying blond locks fell in a disheveled mess around his head; he hardly cared, hadn’t had a haircut in months, and was not planning on getting one any time soon. Releasing sharp a exhale, he schooled his expression into a scowl as the door finally opened.

“Mycroft.” John hissed the name through gritted teeth, trying to hold back the seething mess of anger and desperation from showing in his voice.

“John.” The beta's lips pursed into a thin line as he glared down his nose at the shorter man. Those grim, sharp, eyes took in the street behind John's frame, glancing furtively first left, then right, before he returned his gaze to John's with a put upon sigh. “Alright then, come in before you go rousing Mrs. Lewis.” He commanded, pushing his door open wider and taking a step back to allow John entry. John took the offer, slipping past the other man and into the entryway with only a cursory glance at the lavish decorations. He had the presence of mind to scuff his shoes against the entryway carpet, unable to put aside his mother's manners. Adjusting the waist of his jumper where it had rucked up, he turned back to Mycroft, waiting for the other man to finish setting the locks before being lead to a green-toned parlor. John glanced around at the unfamiliar territory, scowling at the hung artwork and grandiose decorations. Mycroft had none of his brother’s wayward style. Everything was too proper. To in its place. He should have double-checked his shoes at the door; he was probably tracking all of London across Mycroft’s thousand-dollar wool rug.

Mycroft settled into a settee with graceful ease, his ankles crossing and palms clasped together. The lower position put John only slightly at ease, his instincts raging at being in someone else's territory. His instincts had been doing that far too often recently. He could hardly leave the house now without his instincts shrieking at him to find his alpha, which was ridiculous. Mostly because he didn't fucking have one! John had always preferred being an unmatched omega. So this new discomfort was a damn mystery. Sherlock wasn't his alpha. They weren't bonded. The only label John could think of calling them was best friends and one time lovers.

 _But he said I was his._ John remembered, clinging to the last memory he had of Sherlock. Maybe that was enough, they practically were a mated pair, in everything but sex. And alpha or no alpha, that didn't change the fact John craved the comfort of home and more, importantly, of Sherlock. There was no home to turn to now, not when Sherlock was missing.

Mycroft cleared his throat, arching an eyebrow when he finally had John's attention. Shoving his hands into his pocket, John resisted the urge to reach out and rip that eyebrow right off his smarmy face.

“Well, then what can I do for you today, Jo-"

“It’s been month’s Mycroft. Three, fucking, months!” John shouted, interrupting Mycroft with a slash of his hand through the air. He dared not take a seat. Instead, he resorted to pacing the space in front of the fireplace mantel in tight circles.

“John, we are doing everything we can.” John hated the sound of his name on Mycroft’s crafty lips.

“Obviously, that’s not enough, has there been a ransom, a body, anything? You haven’t picked up your fucking phone or texted." Three month's of almost no contact, with Mycroft on radio silence. If John didn't know better he would have thought he'd just up and imagined the Holmes brothers. It was driving him mad, off the walls bonkers. "Then you send Anthea to do your dirty work." Anthea, he'd practically tried to rip her throat out when the Alpha woman tried to step into his home, into Sherlock's territory. Oh, she'd been lucky to come out with her carotid intact. "How am I supposed to take you at your word?”

“John-”

“Stop saying my name _Mycroft_ ,” John snarled, fixing the older man with a challenging glare. The fact that he was an omega in another man’s territory hardly mattered, he’d come for answers, and he would get them this time. He’d tried to call and speak with Mycroft so many times he’d lost count. The elder Holmes had ignored or disregarded his questions every time. Anthea had been the last straw. She’d appeared on his doorstep a week ago, informed him to stop looking for Sherlock, and assured him they had everything under control.

"As Anthea told you, there isn't much you can do," Mycroft explained. How could he not understand? It didn't matter of John sat on his arse all day while they figured out where Sherlock was. It didn't matter, because John just needed to know _something_ anything. This being kept in the dark was not working. All he could do was dwell and dwell on the fact the Sherlock wasn't there. He wasn't a detective, he'd learned that very quickly in the months following Sherlock's disappearance. His own search had turned up nothing. Mostly because he had nothing to go by.

He couldn't do it anymore.

“Why are you keeping me out of the loop? I can help.” John felt his voice break and attempted to take in a deep calming breath. “Please, Mycroft, I need something.” He hated the note of pleading in his tone, hated to beg, but he’d been scrambling for months, trying to find some connection, some clue as to Sherlock’s whereabouts. “All you will tell me is that you have it handled, but you don’t; if you did, I would have him back by now!”

Mycroft leaned back against the settee with a sigh, staring at John with quiet, assessing eyes. The doctor was reminded that Mycroft was a Holmes through and through, and therefore saw more than most people. John straightened his spine, trying to look stronger than he felt under the man’s evaluating gaze. He was not confident in what the other man was looking for, but more than willing to prove himself. They both lingered in their respective areas of the parlor, neither one moving, as they considered the problem at hand. When the older Holmes finally spoke up, it was not at all what John was expecting.

“When was the last time you ate John?” Mycroft questioned.

"What kind of question is that?" John flinched, taking a step back from the suddenly concerned eyes. More than a little confused by the change in subject. “I don’t think I’m the one we should be worrying about right now. Sherlock’s out there, alone.” John clenched his hands in his hair, a nervous habit he had developed over the last few months. He’d be bald by summer's end at this rate.

The glare Mycroft leveled at him was heavy with disappointment. “Yes, well, what do you think Shirley would say if he saw you right about now? You’re bedraggled and thin. I imagine he’d be quite perturbed to see his mate in such a state.”

John choked at the word mate, hands falling to his side, his fingers clenching into tight fists. For a moment, he eyed the plaster bust of Queen Elizabeth on the mantel and considered chucking it at the smug man's head. It took a monumental effort to push down that desire, but he managed. It seemed Mycroft was destined to bring out the worst in him. “It’s not like that. We were never... never that. Never mates.” John tried to explain, looking away from Mycroft's stormy eyes, so he did not have to see the look of disbelief that overcame the other man’s features.

Silence, then a soft put upon sigh. “Come along then. I have some tea and biscuits in the kitchen; we can talk over a cup.” He all but ordered the command sharp on his tongue, though it did not have the power of an Alpha behind it. He might have considered resisting, but somehow John found himself following behind the other man, breathing in slow timed inhales to try and ease the distress that had been unrelenting the last few months.

Mycroft’s kitchen was a lovely affair, comfortable and cozy, and containing far more personality than the stale looking parlor room. The pots were well used and loved, a singular one sitting in the dish rack, no doubt leftover from the morning’s breakfast. John settled into a high-backed chair at a rather small dining room table and transferred his clenched fists, so they gripped the arms of the chair, the wood creaking in protest. A basket of fruit sat in the center of the table, a couple of pears and tangerines lining the bottom of it. He eyed the fruit, not daring to look up as the elder Holmes puttered about the kitchen.

“I’m not eating until you tell me what happened,” John ordered, scowling at the lovely set of china Mycroft settled down on the table in front of him, complete with saucer and matching teacup. It was a step up from John’s mismatched mugs and the kitchen countertop he usually ate at when he was in a hurry.

“Sugar?” Was Mycroft’s only response as he took up the teapot and emptied its belly into the matching cups. John shook his head, accepting cream and sighing in relief when he caught the familiar floral scent of black tea and not another one of the unusual concoctions Mycroft sometimes favored. His stomach rolled at the idea of one of those fruity mixtures, and he had to breathe through his mouth for a moment to calm his gag reflex. A couple of ginger digestives made their way onto the side of his saucer, and he eyed them dubiously before mumbling a thank you (his mother’s manners making themselves known again) and pulling the little plate closer until it sat comfortably in front of him.

“And this as well.” John glanced up and watched, slightly dismayed, as Mycroft took hold of a tangerine from the basket and set to cutting it. His fingers gripped the knife and sliced into the orange flesh, breaking it down into quarter slices. He worked with delicate assurance, laying the slices out across an extra tea plate one by one.

“Christ, I don’t remember ever seeing you do something so…mundane before.” John stared, wondering if he should photograph this moment, for posterity’s sake, if nothing else.

“I cook,” Mycroft protested, wiping his palms with a tea-towel.

“Oh, I’m sure of that. You probably put truffle oil and caviar on your omelet.” John snarked, absently biting into a digestive, the spiced ginger taste of it lingering on his tongue. For once, his stomach didn’t fight him on the idea of actual food, and he sighed in relief. If this whole thing with Sherlock didn’t devolve into him developing a stomach ulcer, he would be surprised.

“I am sure I have a jar of caviar in the fridge I can bring out. You can put it on your biscuit.” The older Holmes snapped, thrusting the cut-up orange towards John.

John snorted into his teacup and tried not to choke to obscenely. “My god, Mycroft Holmes just told me a joke. I must be delusional.” John chuckled, the sound halfhearted at best. He reached for his other biscuit and nibbled on the edge. The second one went down just as well as the first. That was a relief. Feeling tolerablly comfortable, considering the company, he eased back in his chair, eyes staring into his cup of tea.

Mycroft settled into a chair across from him, taking his sweetened tea in hand, along with a biscuit. “Hmm, never did like ginger.” He admitted aloud, his large hand completely dwarfing the little teacup as he sipped and then bit into a biscuit in turn.

“Why do you have them then?” John questioned, reaching for the sleeve and slipping another biscuit free. He ate this one with a little more gusto, now that the other two had gone down comfortably. Mycroft scowled and pulled the biscuits away, gesturing at the fruit slices.

“Eat the tangerine first,” Mycroft commanded with a scowl fit for a school teacher. John scowled back, not to set on being told what to do. He didn't appreciate being treated like he was some fussy teen. “And I bought them for… a friend,” Mycroft explained, tapping one blunt trimmed nail on the porcelain of his cup. John blinked, not sure how his storming into Mycroft’s home had devolved into the two of them having an actual, civil, conversation.

“Hmmm…a romantic friend?” John asked, bringing his tea to his lips and taking a large gulp. The look on Mycroft’s face was well worth the question as he dropped his drink from his lips and leveled John with a disbelieving look. “Oh come on, even an asexual like you can get their romance on, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” John questioned, peeling an orange slice from the rind and popping it into his mouth. Sure, Mycroft was a bit of a nit and had a tendency to be a little bit bossy, but he was more than capable of love, as long as it didn't bore him.

“Don’t be absurd,” Mycroft scowled, his lips pursing into a thin line, aghast at the very notion. “I can hardly understand what my brother sees in you!”

John flinched at the mention of his missing partner, his light-hearted mood bursting like a bubble. He pushed away the plate of oranges, any appetite he had disappearing and leaving his stomach with a rolling ball of anxiety. The biscuits felt dense and solid in his belly. The fact the Mycroft had somehow weaseled him into eating them in the first place was frustrating.

Mycroft sighed, his brow furrowing tight with regret. “I apologize, I should not have said that.” He admitted, his tea forgotten in front of him.

John shrugged, his face twisting with worry. “I need to know something, Mycroft. What job was he working on? He wouldn’t tell me, said it would upset me.” John admitted, starring down into the dregs of his teacup. “When he left, he didn’t tell me where he was going. We were supposed to meet up for lunch.” He closed his eyes at the memory of that last blur of Sherlock’s Belstaff before it disappeared around the door jam. He should have gone after the other man. Why did he have to listen to Sherlock's damn persuasive baritone? It had sounded like a fantastic idea, sleeping in and taking a bit of a rest after weeks of hard work. If he had just _been_ there, maybe things would have turned out differently, and Sherlock would be in the room with them, enjoying a cup of tea.

At his chair, Mycroft seemed to dwell on John's question. His eyes studying the omega with no small amount of consideration. Finally, he sighed, leaning heavily on the arm of his chair and turning his head so his eyes didn't meet John's. His features were unreadable, as always.

“It was all very under the table. We got word that someone in high places is meddling in some dark business dealings,” Mycroft explained, his eyes going distant. “I put Sherlock on the case; I’m too high profile a face, and my people are well known in their circles. Our target would have jumped ship as soon as they realized we were on their tail.”

“What do you mean by dark business?” John questioned, sitting up straighter and drinking in every word Mycroft said. His heart hammered with the realization that he was finally getting answers. His voice was sharp and demanding, the military surgeon in him taking over.

Mycroft sat up straighter as well, all business. “We had reason to suspect that they were dabbling in human trafficking, perhaps medical experimentation.” He explained.

John stared at the other man, his brow furrowing in shock. “You don’t just “dabble” in human trafficking.” He whispered, his eyes flickering from the older Holmes to the bowl of fruit as he tried to get his head around the idea.

“Yes, well, that was what Sherlock was for. He was gathering evidence, deducing where the victims were being held, keeping tabs on the enemy, so to speak.” Mycroft explained, “But they were remarkably clever in hiding their inner workings, thus the runaround. Whenever Sherlock had a lead, they just uprooted themselves and left. They have means and finances far greater than our normal lot. There was a loading dock that had scent memories of one of the missing people. So we waited and watched the dock for further activity.”

John listened with rapt attention as the puzzle piece fell into place. Mycroft described how he’d called Sherlock that morning, three months ago, and urged his younger brother to go to the dock. There had been some developing action, an unmarked cargo ship that seemed out of place. “Of course, I had him go observe, but when it was time for him to check-in, he never did,” Mycroft explained with a sigh, tapping his nails against the table, the only indication that what he was saying in any way affected him.

“We searched, John; we’ve been searching. He’s disappeared, and none of my sources can find him.” Mycroft explained, finally lifting his gaze to look John in the eyes. “These are people who know how to make someone _disappear_ ,” Mycroft’s hand slapped the table, making John flinch. “It’s their _job_ to make people disappear.”

John stared back in stunned silence; his heart was crashing around his ribcage like an injured bird. “What…are you saying?” He whispered, his voice barely escaping past the panic settling in his chest.

“I’m saying he’s missing John. He’s missing, and we can not find him.” To hear those words come out of a Holmes brother's mouth was alarming; he'd never known the brothers to give up or give in to pressure. Sherlock and Mycroft always had the answer. Where one failed, the other stepped in, making every problem a solution,

“B-but-you’re you, how- you know everything!” John stared, voice incredulous and breaking at the end. He hated it, hated that sound of weakness in his voice. He needed to stay strong, for Sherlock. He felt something splash against the back of his hand and stared at the glistening tear as it trailed down his skin.

This was a turn of events he had never anticipated. In the beginning, he had decided that Sherlock was more than likely gone undercover. The presumption made everything neat and tidy. All he had to do was wait for the case to be over, and Sherlock would be back. No matter what, he had always hoped that Mycroft not only knew what was happening, bit also had his puppet strings attached to all the players. 

“Not this time,” Mycroft admitted, voice solemn and filled with sadness, the way his fist clenched speaking volumes for how saying those words affected him. John felt another tear spill down his cheek and caught it with his hand before it had the chance to fall. 

John cringed at the sound of defeat in Mycroft’s voice. The lack of hope weighed on John for a moment. How could he give up on someone so important to him? Sherlock was the backbone of their ragtag group, the buzzing center to everything they were. For John, envisioning a future without Sherlock was like thinking of a world without air. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at the mere thought, his lungs seizing in a panic that had stars racing across his vision. Swaying in his seat, his heart raced with the utter fear of losing Sherlock for good.

Then he remembered the taste of Sherlock on his lips, the feel of their bodies intertwined together. Remembered the words they’d said to each other weeks ago.

_“You're omega, huh?”_

_“Mmm…most certainly, mine.”_

Morning sky blue eyes shining and happy, and _focused._ So focused on John and John alone, like he was something precious, important, and he knew he couldn’t give up. Sherlock loved him, and he loved Sherlock. Neither of them had the chance to say so out loud, and John had to make sure they got that chance.

“Alright, he’s missing,” A quick swipe of his palm across his eyes brushed away the tears lingering on his red-rimmed eyes. “Fuck it. I’m going to get him back.” John straightened his spine and knocked his knuckles against the bare wood of the table for emphasis, the sound of it splitting through his melancholy and giving him a sense of purpose.

“Now, are you going to help me, or am I gonna have to do this all by myself?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nini's Rambles:  
> Welcome to the real feels of this fic. Things are going to get desperate and uncomfortable from here out. John is a literal mess at the moment. I wanted to write him with a bit of raw grief, because our boy is not afraid to feel, though feeling around Mycroft? That might be a different story. Sherlock has been missing for 3 months, and I'm sure you're all thinking that's a freaking long time for John to have sat around doing nothing. Not the case, I'm sure he's been trying his hardest to find Sherlock, it's just he hasn't had the information to go off of to even start. We can blame Mycroft for that, he's a bit of a secretive asshole.
> 
> Take Note:  
> -What's up with those pesky stomach troubles? I'm sure we all know, just check out the tags, but I'm a writer dammit, it will all come in due time!  
> \- Mycroft's defiantly hiding something, he does not want John involved.
> 
> Stay tuned for more chapter updates.  
> Feed your writers, we do this for the comments and the kudos friends. Also, for the adorable relationships and ever expanding universes, but that's second sauce my friends.


	3. Vallichor and Chai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for grief, eating problems, and Mycroft being a total dick.
> 
> The warehouse image used in this chapter is from my hometown of Albuquerque, New Mexico. So you will not find that in good old London, but it just visually represented what I was envisioning, so tough!

Mycroft was against the whole situation. The exact words he said were, “There is a reason I did not bring you in on this in the first place. These people have captured far smarter men than you, John Watson. I would highly discourage chasing your tail in front of them.”

John’s ego had twinged a bit at that. “You are aware I’m a highly trained doctor and a war veteran?” He’d responded, more than a little miffed that the other man thought so lowly of him. Mycroft wasn't interested in listening though, and John found himself leaving Mycroft's abode without the other man's backing.

John had never been the type to take no for an answer, and he wasn’t looking to start now, especially with one Mycroft Holmes. So for the first few days, he set out on his own, hoping by some stroke of dumb luck, that he’d get a clue dropped in his lap. He wasn’t disillusioned enough to believe he would get much further than Mycroft and his people had, but Sherlock took him along on his cases for a reason. He was the sensible one, the one who saw things like an average, ungifted, boring human.

So John set out looking for someone, anyone, who had seen or heard from Sherlock in those vital hours before he had gone to the dock. Sherlock’s network was suspiciously absent- he suspected they had booked it when Mycroft’s men came searching. Not giving up, he hounded all the standard back alleys and dens. He checked the underpasses and went into the boroughs of Newham as far as someone dressed as smart as he dared. He'd had to retreat after the occupants of the homeless camps there had shouted at him and thrown a few empty cans, disgruntled at his presence. The familiar faces he had become known to were nowhere to be found. It took three days of combing the streets to finally make contact with one of Sherlock’s network. His search only became fruitful when he came across a young girl named Anya.

She crouched against the mossy brick of a local market, delving into a bag of crisps John had purchased with visible gusto.

“You promised a tenner too.” She groused from around a mouthful of crumbs, holding up one grubby hand. John chuckled and crouched down beside her. The waist of his khakis digging into his belly thanks to the new position.

“Right, that I did.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out ten pounds, handing it over without a fuss. He wouldn’t deny the kid the money, even if she had no information to give him. The fact that all of Sherlock’s homeless network had been mysteriously absent every time Mycroft’s posh crew had gone looking wasn’t lost on him. He was rather pleased one of them had finally chosen to show themselves, to him no less. He also wasn’t looking to burn the only bridge he’d found before he crossed it.

“There you go, how about you tell me when you last saw Sherlock,” John asked, dragging in a shallow breath through his nose as he waited for her to speak. The whole area was bustling, large crowds drawn out thanks to the sunny day. He was familiar with this area the crowds were nothing new. There was a nice little cafe across the way, and several different shops, all open and displaying their wares in the windows. He stared out across the street towards the lit entrance of the cafe. He and Sherlock had shared lunch there many times over the last few years, but it’d been months since either of them had frequented the little place, and any scents of his missing lover were long gone. 

Anya scowled into her bag of crisps and shrugged her shoulders.

“‘E was goin’ to that old buildin’ down the street, the ones that smell’s like shite.” She explained, her green eyes distant as she recalled. John had already deduced on his own that Sherlock's encounter with her had been at least a week before his abduction. Whatever the girl had shown Sherlock was old news, it hadn't lead to a break in the case for Sherlock. Even so, it was a step in the right direction, another clue in the trail that Sherlock had left for him to unearth. “I told ‘em about how they been takin’ kids out of there. Movin' ‘em all bound up in ropes and chains. I saw them, I did, they all smell like sad and death.” She whispered, her lower lip quivering. The look was frankly disturbing on such a young hardened girl. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He reached out and squeezed her small hand. She leaned against him for a moment, probably finding his omega scent comforting. He was more than willing to let her, knowing that for most children, and even many adults, the scent of a kind omega could have a calming effect. It was one of the small things that made him a better doctor, and he was used to using it to his benefit. He could only assume that Anya had happened to see the traffickers in action. John had to wonder why they were transferring the children? Had something happened to make them abandon their location, and where were they transferring them? Too many questions and he had the answer to none of them. It did tell him one thing, this human trafficking business was real. “Do you remember where it was?” He questioned, hating to ask, and put the girl in danger, but needing to know. His anger simmered in the back of his mind. It disgusted him that something so horrible was happening right under the noses of every English citizen.

Anya was reluctant, but another twenty pounds in her pocket had her tossing her empty snack bag into a nearby bin, and before he knew it, she was urging him to follow her. “Fine, but you’re a goodie, so you ain’ gonna like i’.” She warned, dusting of the street dirt from her rump. John nodded expression grim to show the girl he was taking her seriously. His heartbeat kick into overdrive at the realization that he was finally getting some sort of confirmation to what Mycroft had told him. This was the first clue he’d had as to Sherlock’s whereabouts, and he clung to it like a man on a life-raft.

Anya led him to a boarded-up apartment complex in Ratcliff. The East London building was abandoned, from everything John could see. He scented the air, but whatever scent-memories the building had once contained were long gone. If Anya had it right, then the building had been emptied at least a few weeks before Sherlock had come upon it. The building abandoned in mass. John could only assume that the network of abductors had taken their captives and run. What had spooked them, John couldn’t be sure, but there was a genuine possibility that Sherlock had been the one to scare the group off in the first place, he had been working the case for long before his abduction after all.

All John knew was that he most certainly could see evidence of previous habitation. One room held a child’s toy. Another had half a dozen mismatched shoes on the floor. In a separate apartment, the smell of death was still strong, despite the length of time it’d been since someone had occupied it.

If Sherlock, or even Mycroft, had been there, they would have been able to suss out which way the culprit’s had gone based only on some wayward piece of hair that landed on the floor. John had no such luck and was left hunting for clues that were obvious enough for him to understand. Of that, there were few, even with the knowledge that Sherlock had imparted on him over the years. When he finally left the apartment building, it was with a growing sense of frustration and dread. Sherlock was in the hands of madmen. Whoever they were, they had no qualms or issues with hurting and killing fellow human beings. He dared not wrap his mind around the fact that the alpha could very well be dead by now.

Thanking Anya- who had outright refused to go into the building, but had lingered around to “Make sure you don’ do somfing stupid.”- he hailed a cab. Watching the girl disappear into the evenings darkening streets, he sighed and shook his head. He was getting nowhere by himself, and this only proved it. He could see the crime scene, but not the crime itself. He’d never had to try to interpret these things without Sherlock guiding him through it. He needed help, and he wasn’t about to let pride prevent him from finding the missing alpha.

It did not stop him from feeling rightfully pissed off as he settled into the back seat of a cab and reached into his pocket, taking out his phone and dialing.

“Listen, Mycroft, you either help me, or I will do it on my own until I get caught.” John snapped into the phone the moment it picked up. He was met with silence on the other line, then a soft, put upon sigh.

“Very well, I will come by Baker Street tomorrow morning.”

******

The next morning Mycroft was having none of it. He was a miserable scowling git from the moment he knocked on John’s door. “I’m a bureaucrat, you dunce, not a bloody crime scene detective,” he growled, the words leaving his mouth while he slipped past into the flat. They glared at each other over tea that John barely sipped than Mycroft brought out the half-opened sleeve of Digestives and laid them out on the table like a peace offering. “I’ll have you remember we are doing this against my advisement.” Mycroft reminded, his lips a thin line of annoyance as John grudgingly accepted a biscuit.

It was like having less desirable, far bossier Sherlock on his hands.

Yet he did help. Every morning for the next five days, he drove to Baker Street to pick up John, and they went out hunting for clues. And while Mycroft was second best to John’s wayward alpha, he kept John just a little more grounded. It felt less like he was jumping into the frying pan every time he left 221B, and he found himself able to think past the overwhelming panic that losing Sherlock had created.

On the sixth day, they found another abandoned location, this time it was a warehouse. John starred up at the abandoned hulking mass of brick and mortar. Just looking at it had his mind filling with a foreboding sense of dread. Even meters away, as he was, he could smell it. The scent of blood and death and illness that seemed to ooze from the building like an infected sore.

A swath of chainlink fence surrounded the decrepit eyesore. The two of them had slipped in through a break in the fence that looked suspiciously like wire-cutters had made it. The fence explained one thing, why the authorities had not come to inspect the building on smell alone. The smell, while familiar, made him sick to his stomach. It lingered in the air, raw and real, and like a punch to the sinuses.

[ ](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bc/ATSF_Railway_Machine_Shop_Albuquerque_2014.jpg)

Entering the building was like willingly stepping into some horrible hellscape. The building was one large room, with ceilings that ended twenty, possibly thirty-feet up. Littered across the floor were old pieces of paper, the ink faded where sunlight pierced through shattered windows. The sheer mass of window panes rather brilliantly lit every detail of it. Blood speckled the walls, stained the floors, and feces was visible in varying states of decay. A lone blanket hung from a high beam, flapping in the breeze coming from the broken windows.

On the floor were multiple metal fixtures drilled into the concrete, corner braces that possibly once held up walls, or some type of dividers. They lined the floor in large squares, one after another, so that if John tilted his head just right, he could visualize the walls they once created.

“Cells…” He whispered, sickened by the revelation. Taking a step forward he dug the toe of his shoe into the metal fixture; it was solidly set in the ground, immovable. Mycroft followed his gaze, and John watched as he came to the same conclusion, eyes narrowing “These once were the bases to prison cells. To keep them captive." Looking out across the vast expanse of the building, he noted the braces lined most of the floor. "Hundreds of them, ” He could only imagine the workforce it would take to run an operation so large. Even more so, to than breakdown the makeshift prison without a single person sounding the alarm about it. "This isn't some small-time smugglers. This is a legitimate operation with money backing it."

“They’ve been operating for quite some time,” Mycroft added, his voice a sharp with anger. “Right under our noses, might I add.”

John nodded his agreement, he had seen worse, so much worse, in the battlefield on the front lines. But this was home, this was in his city, in his own country. He had come home from war and hoped never to have to experience anything like it ever again. It pissed him off to no end that someone out there was capturing helpless women, children, and men and selling them. For what purpose, he could not be certain, Mycroft said he did not know either, and John was inclined to believe him.

“God, these people make me sick,” John muttered under his breath, using his right hand to slip his gun out of his shoulder holster and undoing the safety. The movement had his shoulder twinging and he rolled it, rocking the joint to ease the pain. He was careful to keep his gun concealed at his thigh. Mycroft moved closer, his bulk blocking it from sight at his right side. John peered up at him from under pale lashes, surprised at the forethought the gesture showed.

“Yes well, that’s why Sherlock did not want you to be involved in this whole debacle in the first place.” Mycroft groused, his hand clenching at his umbrella as he looked up into the high lofted rafters of the building. The afternoon sun that glinted through the high windows gave him a tanned quality and highlighted the scowl on his lips.

“What does that even mean?” John asked, stopping to round on Mycroft with a glare. “I regularly have to dispose of human heads from my refrigerator because of your barmy brother. How is this any different?”

Mycroft scoffed, the sound barely audible, but there. “You’ve been favoring your arm for the last three days. Yesterday you almost shot that poor chap in the back just for dropping a trashcan lid to loud. Today your limp is back, though you haven’t seemed to notice yet.”

John gaped at Mycroft. “What are you trying to say Mycroft?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I’m not saying anything that Sherlock hasn’t told me. He was worried that this case would have possible….triggers.”

John recoiled, his head jerking back on his neck, stunned. “Triggers? Shove off, you wanker! I don’t have PTSD anymore!” John spat, turning from Mycroft and stalking away, his heels clipping on the dank concrete flooring and sending echoes up into the overhead rafters. John was flabbergasted at the very idea, he had not been triggered in years and was happy to consider himself cured of that particular ailment. It stunned him that Sherlock would think so low of him as to believe him incapable of doing a case. He wasn't some helpless omega who needed to be coddled.

Mycroft caught up easily, barely extending his legs to keep up with John’s faster pace. “While that is a nice concept Doctor, you should know better than anyone that my dear brother is _not_ a cure-all for medical ailments. His coming into your life may have helped ease the symptoms, but they will not just disappear. And while a certain amount of adrenaline helps you along. We are not living in a fairy tale.” Mycroft spoke his words emphasized by the sharp click of his umbrella as he fell in stride beside John on his right side. “We all have weaknesses that must be accounted for.”

John cringed as he felt his leg twist uncomfortably, the knee giving off a jolt of pain he hadn’t even been aware of until that moment. Sucking in a calming breath, he tried to reign in his temper. If he was honest with himself, he had been painfully on edge recently, especially without Sherlock anchoring him down. Everything bothered him, from sounds to smells. He felt like an oversensitive bottle of nerves, jarring at every tap of a finger on his metaphorical glass. He had every right to be that way though, the man he had only just started dating, after years of unrequited desire, had been kidnapped! Of course, he would panic.

If he thought about it long enough, it wasn’t even the idea of still having PTSD symptoms that stressed him out, more that Sherlock had taken notice of something he hadn’t been aware of, and hadn’t said anything about it. He didn’t like being the dirty secret that no one wanted to speak of. It irked him. What had Sherlock seen in him before he’d disappeared that made him think John wasn’t stable enough to handle this particular case?

Turning on his heel, John leveled a scowl at the elder Holmes, “Yeah, well, how about next time you both try not to keep secrets from me, and I’ll do my best not to drag your bloody cases down.” He snapped, squeezing the grip to his gun to stop himself from snapping at the other man in a more physical way.

“Oh, don’t be an over-reactive ninny, John. He hardly meant you to take it so...personally.” Mycroft’s voice faded as he walked away, catching a whiff of something familiar coming from the back of the building. A light, barely-there scent that was almost overwhelmed by the stench of the place. If he had been walking any faster, he might not have even caught the scent at all. Stumbling to a halt he spun in place, ignoring Mycroft’s raised eyebrow and blessedly silent mouth, to focus on that evasive aroma before it disappeared entirely. Beside him, he heard Mycroft inhale slowly, trying to catch the same scent John had.

“Sherlock?” John could not help the tone of hope in his voice as he followed the tantalizing whiff of alpha. It took a moment to find the origin point. Then he saw it, shrouded in the shadows, a side exit that was almost invisible from their vantage point. Unthinking, he stumbled down the darkened hallway towards what he could only imagine was the Foreman’s office. The floor was dirty and sticky under his feet, crackling against the sole of his shoe with every step. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, turning back to see Mycroft’s hazy figure not far behind him.

“Turn on your torch.” John commended. He didn’t want to put down his gun, not when he couldn’t be sure what lay waiting in the darkness. He waited impatiently, rocking on his heels, as the older man swapped his umbrella for his phone and flipped through to turn on the app. The glaring LED light flared brightly for a moment, making John hiss and cringe away. Once his eyes were adjusted, he caught sight of a closed door. Heart leaping, he reached out, twisting the handle using the sleeve of his jumper until the door creaked open on old hinges.

The first thing that hit him was a rushing wave of scent that was almost overwhelming in its veracity. The familiar smell of petrichor and electricity mixed with painful peppercorn tones and a sharp, fearful zing of lemon that had John flinching back. Layered on top of it all was the horrible, rich scent of iron.

A single window lit up the room with the bright afternoon sun, showing every gory detail. Blood, blood was everywhere, coating the ceiling in sharp lines of rust red, and then leaking in drips onto the office desk below it. He could see large swaths of it puddled on the floor, collecting in the hollows of the concrete. Papers and various office supplies scattered across the floor in utter chaos. There, in the center of it all was a hideously noticeable drag mark, the shape of it long and thin. He thought he saw the impression of curls marring the bloody surface right where ahead would have landed.

John didn’t realize he was screaming until Mycroft’s tall frame blocked off his view of the door. He found himself suddenly muscled away from the horrible sight until his back slammed into the wall behind him. He was barely aware enough to feel long, cold fingers latched around his throat and jerk his neck up, forcing his vision away from the bloody sight until he was starring up into storm blue eyes. Mycroft’s mouth was moving, but he couldn’t concentrate enough to hear through the pounding of his own heart and the sound of his own cries.

“-ocus John, Focus!” The older Holmes’ normally monotone voice was sharp and commanding, breaking through John’s panic. The hand at his neck squeezed down, anchoring John to that moment in time just as an alphas would. Sherlock rarely needed to use his alpha dominance to comfort John, but when he did, it was like a soothing balm, easing the edges off of horrible situations and dragging John down to a calmer mind space. Whatever Mycroft was doing, it was close enough to the real thing to leave John feeling grounded just by the placebo effect.

“It is not his blood. Scent, can you smell it?” Mycroft commanded, his voice just above a whisper, even as he bent to speak into John’s ear, forcing his body in closer to John’s then they’d ever been before. John gasped in a couple sobbing breaths, dragging in the scent of…beta. First was the low-level scent of chai tea and bound books, Mycroft’s light fragrance tickling the edge of his nose as the older man pressed John’s head against the crook of his neck. And underneath that, almost blocked by Mycroft’s proximity, was the dulling scents of lavender, shea butter, dust and almond bitters, another beta, maybe two.

“Oh, thank fuck…” John chocked in relief, his adam’s apple bobbing against the swell of Mycroft’s palm.

“Smell it?” Mycroft asked, his icy hand shaking John’s short frame. John nodded his head, clutching the lapels of the elder Holmes’ suit jacket. “He’s been hurt, but he took down whoever did it.” The ginger explained still in that hushed, calming pitch, his tone taking on a note of grim approval. “This must be where they found him. He followed the dockworkers here from the loading docks. It looks like he was caught and got in a bit of a scuffle while attempting an escape.” The explanation seemed plausible enough, given the evidence in front of them.

John let out a watery snort, taking a moment to wipe his face with his sleeve. He could barely get his hand into the space between them but dared not ask Mycroft to move, not when he felt so damn unstable. “That’s a bit of a scuffle? Somebody is dead.”

Mycroft grunted. “Yes, well, it is not the important somebody, so do we care?”

John swallowed hard, his Adam's-apple bobbing against the sharp constraint of Mycroft’s palm. “No, no, we don’t.” He managed, sagging against Mycroft's taller form and accepting the strength he offered, if only for a moment. The fact that he could even be comforted at all by Mycroft's presence was unanticipated.

“Christ, how is this even working” The omega waved a hand between their entwined bodies, the gesture encompassing everything from his face pressed to the lapels of Mycroft's chest to the hand at his throat and the soothing pressure it provided. It shouldn’t have been possible for Mycroft to comfort John like an alpha. Yet above him, Mycroft’s brow was wrinkled with a level of concern that John had never seen. His blue eyes flickered over John’s no doubt pale face, looking for signs that John would break further.

“I’m a Beta darling. This is basically in the job description. I might be asexual, but instincts are instincts” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his thumb leaving a lingering trail of comfort up the column of John’s throat. Mycroft's pompous voice was oddly soothing as it rumbled against his chest, where their two bodies leaned against each other.

A sound to their left had both men jerking their heads up, and Mycroft pulling away. Stepping forward, John peered into their dim surroundings. Through the low light filtering through broken windows of the warehouse, John caught sight of a stocky silhouette running away from them.

“Hey!” John shouted, and he wasn’t even thinking as he gave chase, breaking free from Mycroft to launch himself down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nini's Rambles:  
> This chapter represents the beginning of something more between Mycroft and John. Yes, we have a few plot moving twists, we finally find some of the locations Sherlock had been investigating previously. Also, we find out were our dear alpha was taken down. But the main thing is that Mycroft seems to be stepping in as a Beta should, trying to comfort John. We're beginning to Mycroft open up alittle!  
> Take Note:  
> -Beta's scents tend to be light, on the softer side of things, they're neutral. Whereas omega's you'll find, are made up of brighter scents, more defined, and if we are talking about alphas, they tend to be raw, powerful, in your face.  
> -We've seen, possibly for the second time, I can't recall, the emergence of secondary scent undertones. These overlay existing scents, and exist depending on how much our characters are feeling, or what they surround themselves with. Also, they vary depending on the person, it's instinct for A/B/O genders to understand what those scents mean, probably through chemical traces or some BS science that I'll make up later. (EA: Sherlock's fear smells like lemons, but that same emotion on another person might smell like cut grass. Also, lemon's might just be someone's primary scent, it all just depends!)  
> \- Mycroft seems to be doing his very best to stop John from finding out and working on Sherlock's case  
> -Poor John is most defiantly suffering from PTSD, the struggle is real  
> \- We find the gruesome location of Sherlock's attack, there's a story to be told there, bookmark so you get the latest chapters
> 
> As always, feed your damn writers! Kudo's and Comments are appreciated!


	4. Berries and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Blood and Violence, Character Death, and John being a badass. 
> 
> Check out this video for an awesome view of 221B  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rLqPMT8MaiA
> 
> The theme song for this chapter:  
> Intruders - Jessie Reyez

John retched into the hollow well of his toilet bowl, that morning’s cup of tea spilling from his innards with a little too much eagerness given the time of day.

“Christ.” Spitting the taste of bile from his mouth John, groaned into the swell of one bicep and waited to see if the desire to spill his guts was going to hit again. After a few moments of just resting, he heaved a sigh of relief. Reaching to his left, he felt around the edge of the sink until he came across the bottle of Bismuth he’d bought in desperation the evening before. Uncapping the damn thing, he poured himself a dose and eyed the pink liquid dubiously. The viscous sweet taste of the medicine had him gagging into the toilet again and, he whined in frustration.

“Alright, that’s not going to work, best go to Tesco’s and get some tablets.” He groused, forcing himself upright. It’d been like this for weeks, his stomach rebelling at even the mention of food. Mycroft’s ginger digestives being the sole exemption so far. He was more than certain he had an ulcer at this point, brought on by the stress of losing Sherlock and the near-constant search for the other man. If he had the time he’d, head over to Bart’s and get Mike to give him a proper script, but there was too much to do, and not enough time to do it. So instead, he sucked it up, suffering through the bouts of nausea with nary a compliment.

As it was, he could hear the heavy tromp of Mycroft’s oxfords on the steps outside the flat. He scowled in annoyance, not sure what wayward brain cell had decided to ask the all-mighty Mycroft for help was a good idea.

Flushing the loo one more time for safety’s sake, he sloshed some mouthwash into his mouth and headed out to the kitchen, spitting the minty stuff down the drain before snatching his grey jacket from the rack and heading to the door, thinking of their last run in the day before. It still rankled that neither of them had noticed the man snooping that close to them. His instincts had been so shell shocked at the scent of Sherlock’s blood that he had hardly been aware of his surroundings. Mycroft had been a little busy trying to bring him down off the edge of a full-blown omega drop to notice the other man sneaking up. That had been just yesterday, and John would be a liar if he said that the incident didn't shake him. The soldier in him seethed internally at the threat.

In the end, he never had the chance to catch up with the mysterious man. He had stopped a block away from the warehouse, slightly out of breath and with a stitch in his side. Guided by instinct, he stopped to snap a photo of the man’s shoe treads where he had splashed through a grimy puddle of street sludge. It took only a moment to send the images off to Mycroft, though he could not be certain if it would be of any use to the other man.

At his front door, he heard the rap of Mycroft’s umbrella, sharp and jarring in the otherwise silent flat. “Coming.” He shouted, kicking on his shoes and cursing his luck once more at being stuck with two Holmes brothers. One was just as impatient as the other. Reaching out, he popped the deadbolt and opened the door, focused more on the zipper of his jacket than anything.

“Good morning to you,” John called, taking a moment to glance up and meet the eyes of the russet haired man. “Feeling a bit of a fuss today, Myc-” John’s lips clipped shut as the door swung open, revealing not one, but two strangers. Two strangers with guns.

All three of them stood still like deers caught in the headlights. John, because he had no clue who they were, and the other two were probably just as surprised, considering they hadn’t expected their prey to just sit himself out like a partridge on a platter.

“Bullocks!” John was the first to react. He kicked the door closed with a sharp jerk of his leg before either man could stop him. Cursing under his breath, he slammed home the deadbolt and spun around. Outside he could hear the sound of angry shouting, and one of the men banged on the door, making the wood shudder. He flinched at the sharp sound. Inside, his mind worked with the rapid-fire thought process of a military man.

They were on the second floor; there was no way he was getting out the fire-escape and down the ladder before the two men started firing. He’d be ripe for the firing squad of they made it to the stairwell before he got down. If dead was what they wanted, they’d accomplish it. Plus, there was no telling how many men were outside; he could step out on to the fire-escape and have a sniper shooting him through the head before he got a chance to blink. Dead again, not the option he was looking for.

On the other hand, if they were looking to capture John alive, then the guns were for nothing but show and damage, which gave him a distinct advantage in a fight. All that left was defending himself. He was pretty damn sure he could take on two goons on his own, as long as the conditions were right. His SIG-Sauer was in Sherlock’s room, tucked securely into the nightstand. No time to get to it. That narrowed things down, the only tactical weapon he had left on hand was the act of surprise and whatever he could find in the flat.

With a sharp nod, he took a step back, tucking himself into the space just to the right of the door. Pressing his body up against the bookcase, he took a couple of breaths. With his mindset, a sense of familiar calm settled over him aided by the adrenaline that pumped through his veins.

His senses were on such high alert that he could hear the sound of the gun cocking on the other side of the door. John hardly reacted when the bullet exploded through the lock of the wooden door frame, sending shards of wood and metal flying outwards. He watched with sharp attention as the door slammed inward, coming inches away from his face before stopping against the firm press of the sole of his shoe. He could feel the tension of someone else holding it open from the other side, a beta, by the smell of him wafting from around the door.

“Get in. Boss needs ‘em with ‘is heartbeatin’,” Came a sharp command. That confirmed one thing, they had no reason to shoot and kill. John watched from his position hidden behind the door, a sense of measured relief coming over him. The shorter of the two, and a full-blooded omega, stepped into the room. His gun cocked at shoulder height, elbows lose, and leading the way with the weapon like it was a dog on a leash. He looked like he’d watched one too many cop shows. If he did get a shot off, the recoil alone would probably knock the idiot out. The unknown omega brought with him the cloyingly sweet scent of berries and oatmeal overlaid with the iron smell of blood sharp and bubbling with excitement and anticipation.

“Don’ see the old cunt!” He shouted, turning to look over his shoulder at his partner.

It was all the distraction John needed. John was used to fighting dirty, thrived on it the same way that Sherlock did. Unlike some others, he had never been under the impression that omegas were the gentler sex. He had no issue taking on one of his gender; omegas could be just as aggressive in a fight as either of the other secondary genders.

There was no room to over-think. To analyze how best to bring the two men down, he needed to act, and quickly, before his opportune moment was lost.

It was the work of no more than second to shift his foot from where it supported the edge of the door. The move off-balanced the beta, holding it just enough that he heard the man stumble in place. Twisting in place, he kicked the door hard the muscles in his thighs bulging under his slacks as he slammed it closed with all his considerable strength. His thoughts were only to temporarily distract the beta on the other side of the threshold. Instead, he heard the distinct sound of flesh connecting with wood, followed by something large substantial crashing down the flight of stairs.

At the same time, he used his momentum, digging his trainer into the green wooden door and using the force of it to propel himself forward before the omega had a chance to react. The dark-haired omega was still holding up his gun like a damn rookie, and John was fast enough that the other man did not have a chance of reacting before John was on him. The rubber of his shoes squeaked when he brought his shoulder up under the man’s armpit. Using the idiot's out-held arm as leverage, John wrapped the would-be attacker's forearm in both his hands. All he needed was a rocking jerk of his hips and, using his shorter height to his advantage, he flipped the omega’s larger body over his shoulder with a sharp motion. He ignored the other man's cry of surprise, painfully aware of the gun held at the other end of those hands.

Gritting his teeth, he followed through with the move, allowing the omega’s weight to yank him backward. There was a crunching sound of an end table as the other man crashed into it, and the sound of shattering of glass from a lamp following shortly after. Twisting in midair, he used his body weight to slam his back on top of the other man with a grunt of effort. The breath knocked from John's lungs in a painful grunt, but it was worth it as, beneath him, the omega choked, crushed between John’s weight and the hard beams of the wooden slat floor. He heard the distinct sound of the gun as it skidded across the floor, landing mere inches away, hammer still cocked and ready.

John didn’t have time to see if the other man was out for the count. Instead he scrambled for the weapon, shoving off the omega to get to the gun. His eyes wavered towards the door. If the beta came up the stairs now, he was screwed. It took only that moment's distraction for his opponent to take advantage.

A sharp pain shot up his skull as fingers laced into his scruffy hair, twisting into the strands and yanking John back and away from the weapon. Red hot agony ratcheted down John’s scalp as he was bodily pulled back across the floor. Shards of glass and wood splintered against his back, painful enough that he let out a cry. The agonizing sound cut off as a strong forearm twisted it’s way around his throat, squeezing tight around the tan column of it. John panicked for a moment when his throat closed under the pressure, fingers scrambling at the arm wrapped like a vice on his neck.

“Jermaine!? Get in here!” The omega’s voice shouted against his ear, strained from holding John so tight.

John choked, unable to get in any oxygen through the tight band of pressure around his neck. Blinking through watering eyes, he stopped his mad grappling, forcing his panic down. Rocking against the weight of his assailant, he managed to get his legs under him, his heels scrambling against the throw rug underneath them. It took everything in him to gather his strength to buck his body backward, slamming his head back against the man holding him. Stars sparked in his vision when his head collided with something hard, bone hopefully, a nose or cheekbone. It wasn’t enough, the other man just cursing and squeezing his grip tighter until John’s eyes started to darken on the edges from lack of oxygen. Not ready to give in, John switched strategies. Instead of trying to yank the man’s arm off his throat, he twisted in the man’s grasp, slamming his elbow into the soft flesh of the other man’s solar plexus. Once…twice…three times, before the omega, gave in with muffled cry and released him. Gasping for breath, John contorted away from his attacker, rolling off him and onto his belly.

For a moment, he didn’t think he could move, his lungs dragging in greedy mouthfuls of air, but if he gave in now, he was as good as dead. He needed something, some way of protecting himself. A weapon. Scrambling to his knees, body shaking with residual tension, his eyes traveled the confines of his small little sitting room.

Strong fingers latched onto his ankle, jerking his knees out from under him. John grunted, kicking back at his attacker in an attempt to dislodge him, his foot meeting nothing but air. His hands madly scrambled for purchase until they grasped the edge of his favorite sitting chair. Clutching the leg, he tried to use it as leverage to get himself out of the omega’s grasp, but only managed to send the chair tumbling onto its side. There was a familiar musical clang as the piece of furniture collapsed sideways, and John gasped, his fingers grasping around thin wood. Hardly a weapon, but it would have to do.

Pivoting to roll on his back, John gritted his teeth as the shards embedded in his back dug in deeper. The omega’s handhold on his legs lost the moment he flipped over, with a snarl Sherlock’s violin slammed down onto the omega’s head. The vibrant belly of it cracked on his attacker's face, the strings singing out their abuse while they dragged across the man’s teeth. John forced aside any remorse he might feel as he brought it down again, shouting with the effort it took. In front of him, the omega went still, blessedly knocked unconscious for the time being.

John didn’t dare waste a moment, dropping the violin, he sent himself scrambling to one knee. The gun lie where he’d last seen it, strewn across the floor in their fight. He reached for it, the butt of the weapon slipping into his palm with a weighty heft that was comfortingly familiar.

“Hey! Stop right there, ya little fuckin’ shit.” John looked up, feeling resigned as a shadow blocked the doorway, the beta, Jermaine, stepped into the room, a nasty scowl twisting his face into a mask of anger.

His gun was trained on John, wavering only slightly. Blood spewed freely from his nose, leaking onto the doormat in bright vermilion drips. Even from this distance, John could see that the man’s pupils were blown out and mismatched, indicative of a head injury. He’d probably fallen down the stairs and knocked himself out. If John were in doctor mode, he would have recommended the man get a CT scan. John wasn’t, though, instead he felt a grim amount of pride at that and chuckled, low under his breath.

That seemed to be the wrong reaction, serving to inflame the other man more. The gun cocked, loud in the charged moment between them. Jermaine's aim locked down. Gun pointed at John's heart. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth! I’mma put a bullet in that fuckin’ hea-”

Jermaine went silent as the sharp echo of a gunshot rang through the flat. John watched as dark red viscera sprayed outward from the beta’s skull and exploded across the entryway stairs, blood and brains, and bone matter splashing the wallpaper with garish gusto.

Slowly John lowered his still warm weapon from his position crouched on the floor of his flat. It had been expedient, and he had used it to his advantage, lifting the gun and pulling the trigger before the man had a chance to realize what was coming. He hadn’t even needed to cock it, the bullet flying free with little more than a press of the trigger. Experienced marksmen that he was, he did not dare to take his eyes off the man’s still standing corpse. He watched with unwavering eyes as the beta swayed, blood leaking from the hole in the center of his head and dripping down his cheeks like tears. His corpse stumbled, still receiving those last signals from the brain, before his knees buckled, sending his body falling backward and tumbling down the landing with a heavy thump.

Through the ringing of the gunshot in his ears, John could hear the omega yelling obscenities behind him. Struggling to his feet, John turned around in time to catch sight of the omega forcing himself to stand, a switchblade in his palm. Seeing the threat, John didn’t even think. Switching to his less dominant left hand, he raised the gun and with a sharp _Pop! Pop!_ He took the omega out at his knees, careful to angle his gun so the bullets would not rip through the floor and injure Mrs. Hudson below.

The omega crumbled to the floor, the knife falling to the ground as he focused on his blown-out knees. “Holy…fuck.” He gasped, too shocked to feel the pain yet.

John stalked forward and kicked the knife out of the man’s reach, disarming him with the precision of someone who had done it a dozen times. It took nothing to shove him over, rapidly searching through the omega’s pockets until he came up with a spare clip of bullets for the gun. He held no remorse for the injured man; the doctor in him pushed to the background of his mind by the Captain who was in full-blown survival mode.

Standing up from his crouched position beside the omega, John sprinted to the window. It was a moment's work to peak out the glass, checking for any suspicious activity. The street outside his flat was clear of everything but debris. At the sight of the empty street, he allowed himself a moment his body bowed down, bent with sheer exhaustion. Clutching his aching side with his free hand, he drew in ragged breaths past his swelling trachea.

The ringing in his ears died down enough for him to finally catch the sound of Mrs. Hudson screaming, her shrieks growing when she stumbled upon Jermaine’s bloody corpse.

“Mrs. Hudson?!” John shouted.

“John! There’s a dead man in the hallway!” Came her high-pitched shriek.

“Yes, well, it looks like you’ll be needing to head out, Mrs. Hudson!” John shouted back, voice broken and strained, peering out the windows. “Now would be a good a time as any!” Mrs. Hudson, having the good sense that she did, went silent. He listened to the sound of her keys jingling, and a moment later watched as she dashed out the front door, bee-lining to her vehicle. Bless her heart; she didn’t even attempt to take anything with her, ever practical.

His breath left a puff of condensation on the windowpane as he let out a sigh of relief. If the only thing he did with this whole situation was keep her safe, it was well worth it. Thinking critically, he dug into his pocket until he felt the hard edges of his phone. Gun still cocked, and at the ready, he unlocked the screen, dividing his attention between watching the window, the door, his downed captor, and the phone. On the screen there was a singular notification from Mycroft.

_Running late, activity at the docks._

John scowled, deep ocean blue eyes barely skimming the notification before he hit the call button on Mycroft’s phone number.

“They’re here.” He snapped into the microphone with clipped words, cutting off Mycroft’s greeting. His voice sounded rough and gritty to his ears, and it hurt to speak. He could already feel the bruising around his throat from were the omega had strangled him.

“I just got the notification. We are on our way.” Came Mycroft’s hasty response, his voice lined in worry. The fact that he had eyes on 221B Baker Street was hardly a surprise.

“Yes, well, it’s a little late for that. I’ve taken care of it.” John snapped, glancing at the two downed assailants.

“Taken care of it? John. What do you mean? Why is there screaming?” Mycroft’s voice grew sharp with alarm.

“You’ll need to bring a body bag. Two if you don’t get here on time.” He added, his lips pursing into an even thinner line as he eyed the downed omega, who was busy shrieking at the top of his lungs now, clutching his ruined knees in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. “There’s a bit of mess in the front hall and the sitting room.” John watched the puddle of blood as it steadily grew around the man with a critical eye. Taking a few steps forward he kicked the throw rug out of the way, Sherlock had picked it out with him last year, he’d hate to see it tossed in the bin due to staining. He couldn’t bring himself to care about the omega’s injuries, not when he smelled of dark t,errible things; death and violence.

John had never believed in the kind, gentle, and refined omega’s described in romance novels and movies. He _knew_ from personal experience that an omega could be just as violent and fucked up as any other gender. Yet he had never met an omega that had smelled quite so…tainted, which was saying something since he had himself to compare the man with.

Outside John heard the sound of tires on pavement and checked the window once more. He looked out in time to see a vehicle speed it’s way up the street, heading in his direction.

“Is this your guys in the blue SUV?” John questioned.

“No,” John could hear shouting on the other side of the phone, Mycroft’s voice taking on a tone of alarm. “Get out of there Jo,hn! Now!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nini's Rambles:  
> I don't know what to say, I've been wanting to write a badass John fic for so long, and now that I am finally doing it I'm so damn excited. This is our very first glimpse into what exactly John can do, which is a heck of a lot. The goal was to have our man kick some major ass, but also get his butt kicked in the process. The entry of our two assailants was quite the surprise, and I think that for everyone that would make it a bit difficult to come out ahead of the game. 
> 
> Things you'll note:  
> \- John got his ass handed to him by an omega. Yes, that did happen, I'm trying to remove gender biases from my fic. There won't be any of that discriminatory hate speech. No omega mollycoddling ( relationships don't apply), you won't find someone asking "What the heck is that omega doing out of the kitchen."  
> \- Take note as well of the difference again between omega and beta scents. I know I mentioned this last time, but there it is again!


	5. Smog and Leather

“Get out of there John!” Mycroft’s voice echoed in the ruined space of his living room.

John grunted his agreement, already dashing down the hallway without the urging from the elder Holmes. With little options left his shoes beat a rapid retreat down the hallway to Sherlock’s room. Being on the first floor, it was the closest escape route he could think of. He slowed down long enough to ease the bedroom door closed and click the lock into place, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself with loud sounds. He doubted anyone was in the house yet, but it was always best to approach these sorts of things with caution, he wanted them to think he’d hidden somewhere in the flat, after all. 

For a moment his eyes caught on the queen bed. It was unmade, the maroon duvet tossed haphazardly down the side of the bed to pool on the floor. He’d been the one to leave it that way, after struggling out of bed all those months ago. The fact that the room was still a mess after all this time wasn’t a surprise. John hadn’t dared to clean up the room, and with it, the last moments that he and Sherlock had shared.

He had been sleeping on the couch instead, too uncomfortable staying in either bedroom, instead opting for the familiar comfort the sofa brought. It still smelled of Sherlock, and if it had gathered a few shirts and blankets that were similarly familiar, there was no one around to complain.

Pushing aside the moment of nostalgia, he moved over to the room’s only window. The early noon sun shone out into the damp alley that butted up between their flat and the one next to them. The fire-escape was close enough to touch, he just needed to get the window open. Sherlock’s window nook was covered in various odds and ends that blocked him from accessing it. With a clatter Sherlock’s books and a candlestick found their way to the ground. The sound was too loud for comfort.

“What was that?” Mycroft questioned, as if reading his mind, his voice clear through the speaker of John’s phone. John started, he had almost forgotten that the elder Holmes was on the other line.

“One moment,” John whispered, putting aside the question in favor of unlatching the window and shoving up on the glass, knowing that Mycroft would catch sight of him any moment on one of his cameras. 

“Ah, there you are.”Mycroft hummed, confirming his guess a moment later.

Cursing under his breath he tucked the phone in tight against his ear and shoulder and wiggled out onto the balcony, his wide-set shoulders only just making it past the window frame. His hand grasped onto the rusty metal of the fire escape with care. It creaked precariously under his weight but held. Compact as he was he didn’t need to crouch to make his way down the steps, instead taking them two at a time in a mad dash. His borrowed gun was clutched in one hand, cocked and at the ready. He glanced out, at the head of the alley, but could not see any signs of his new attackers. The metal steps rocked and swayed under his feet, far too precarious for his comfort. He thought it would be a ridiculously ironic end of he was killed by a poorly maintained fire-escape and not the armed men that were after him.

When his feet hit the asphalt the relief was palpable, he didn’t like being a sitting duck, up in the air with nowhere to go or hide from stray bullets. He’d never been so grateful for a London back alley that smelled of rotten refuse before.

“Mycroft, you still there?” John questioned one hand trailing along the brick wall of the 221 complex the other keeping his gun down at his side, but at the ready. Peering upwards he caught sight of one of the CCTV cameras, the relief at seeing it pointed in his direction almost palpable. Another thing to be thankful for, the ever pestering Mycroft and his constant spying.

“Yes, I see you.”

“Is there anyone at the head of the alley?” John questioned, his voice a gravelly whisper. Bringing himself to a stop beside a trash bin he waited, watching the camera pan across the street, the movement painfully slow. Idly he pushed a hand up under his jacket, hissing through his teeth as he tugged a piece of glass from his back. It was stained with his blood and clinked softly as he dropped it to the ground. There was more where it came from, he could feel the various splinters and shards piercing his skin and aggravating every movement. John had been through worse though, he’d survived a gunshot, and Afghanistan, this was nothing compared to that.

“You are clear,” Mycroft announced against his ear, and John heaved a sigh of relief, throwing all his faith into Mycroft’s observational skills and dashing out of the alley. His feet skidded on the pavement beneath him as he dashed around the corner, taking a left and breaking into an all-out sprint to get away as fast as he could. He tucked his gun in tight against his side, shielding it from sight with his jacket.

“You have a tail.” Mycroft’s voice warned, and John cursed. Now that Mycroft mentioned it he could hear the sound of footsteps racing after him. There was the sound of a gun going off, and a bullet ricocheted off the brick near John’s feet. A warning shot, most defiantly not intended to be lethal. Whoever these people were, they were looking to capture, not kill.

Lips pursing in a thin line John considered if running was the better priority over dealing with the tail. Another bullet clipping a sign just inches away from him made the decision for him. Rolling his eyes he spun in place, taking a moment widen his stance, aim his gun and shoot. The sound of the bullet exploding from the barrel had him flashing back to memories of sand and the blazing sun when someone had been shooting at him in a much different manner.

The bullet hit true, taking his attacker down with a hit at the shoulder. Shaking his head free from painful memories, John didn’t bother to stop and see if it incapacitate the man, using the limited headstart it gave him to his advantage. Adjusting his phone against his ear he ran, his ragged breaths echoed through the microphone of the speaker. Taking a side street as shouting picked up in the distance.

“John, I’m going to lose visual. I am being been denied access to the cameras coming up.” Mycroft’s voice interrupted his headlong flight. The elder Holmes’ sounded troubled and frustrated. Which made sense, if someone was deliberately denying Mycroft access to CCTV it meant that the corruption they were trying to uncover went deeper than they had expected.

It went without being said that it also meant there was a huge chance that he was being watched by someone else other than just Mycroft. “We have arrived at Baker Street now. I want you to go to safe-house three, do you remember where that is?” John grunted into the phone in the affirmative, unable to get words past the aching swell of his throat.

“Very good,” Mycroft’s voice was strained and despite his attempt at sounding calm John could hear the concern in his voice. In the background, there was the sound of doors opening and shouting, followed by the electric zing of tasers and curses. Apparently Mycroft’s people had made contact with the men in the blue SUV.

“Don’t get hurt,” John commanded, later he would take the time to be surprised at his own words. When had Mycroft grown to be more than just an irritating, pompous, annoyance? He didn’t have time for that now though, instead dropping down to a rapid walk as his body started to protest the fast pace.

In his ear the beta scoffed, “I will remind you, darling, I’m a bureaucrat, not a detective. I’m having the rabble do the hard work, the benefits of being in a … managerial position.” John breathes out a pained laugh through his nose. Relieved despite Mycroft’s joking tone, he knew the tall man could defend himself, but he didn’t think he could handle losing another person close to him at the moment.

“Good, good.” If his voice breaks Mycroft has the grace not to mention. He couldn’t admit aloud how hearing Mycroft soothed him, smoothing the edges of his anxiety down to manageable levels.

The omega was getting into a more populated section of the city, with people out in droves, making it a little easier for him to blend in with the crowd. Behind him John heard more shouting, glancing over his shoulder he groaned at the sight of a woman and two men turning onto his block. They hardly seem to care that their guns were out and exposed, ignoring any cries of fear as they passed, searching for John in the crowds.

“Goddammit.” John ducked down, pressing against a newspaper bin until their line of sight turned away from him. Running across the street he narrowly avoided getting hit by a vehicle in his attempt to get away. Dodging the gleaming taxi he ignored shouts from the driver in favor of getting to the side of the intersection before the noise drew attention towards him.

Popping up the collar of his jacket in an attempt further shield his face from view he ducked his head, attempting to hide in plain sight. It seemed to work, to an extent. John’s short stature made it easy to slip further into the masses unnoticed, and though he could hear shouting in the distance, nobody seemed to directly be seeking him out.

In his ear Mycroft was talking to his someone, he didn’t have the focus to gather about what. Thankfully he was not hanging up, as if he were just as uncomfortable with the idea of leaving John to his own devices as John was. He evaded further detection for a couple more streets, twisting and turning at random in an attempt to keep away from the more prominent cameras. There was no guarantee that he wasn’t spotted already, but he tried his best, taking back alleys he was familiar with thanks to his work with Sherlock.

Only when he thought he was well and truly alone did he drop his headlong rush. Breathing a sigh of relief he slowed down to catch his breath. He prided himself in his stamina, but for a man who had been leaning on a toilet and puking up his guts just an hour before, even this was above and beyond what he had the energy for.

Exhaust smoke bellowed out around him, mugging up his vision for a moment. His sight was so obscured that he didn’t see the man in front of him until he barreled right into him. His face collided with the hard width of a strangers chest.

“Bloody hell.” John croaked, almost dropping the phone of his shoulder. Mycroft made a questioning noise in his ear, no doubt wondering what John was doing.

[ ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/e7f959c3ef9ad48f28b0e2291103b3e4/tumblr_mysvifyqb21r9us6no2_500.gifv)

“Hey dude, do you know where-” The man, a tourist at best, an idiot with no sense of direction at worst, reached out to steady him, one hand reaching to grip John’s shoulder. Instinct hid him backing out of the man's reach. John caught a glimpse of sweaty blond hair and a receding hairline. He was far to close for John’s liking, and moved in closer despite John's obvious distaste. John ducked to avoid further being touched, snarling a warning as he skirted around the man. 

He made it only a few steps away before a sharp jab of pain at the back of his neck jolted down his spine and had him crying out in pain and jerking around to face the source of it. The tourist, or whatever the hell he was, backed away slowly, arms up in the air, trying to appear nonthreatening. The glimpse of something metal in his palm was testament enough against that.

“John, what just happened?” Mycroft was still listening in, though his question went unnoticed.

John felt his face turning into a dark scowl of fierce anger as he looked between the man’s hands and his placating gesture. “What the fuck was that, huh?” He shouted, rolling his shoulders to ease the sharp ache.

He did not give the man a chance to answer, launching himself forward and snagging the taller man by his throat, it was the work of a moment to step into the man’s space and swing his own leg behind the brown-haired man's knees, kicking his legs out from under him. Sending the fool to the ground with a snarl of pent up fury. He was sure to maintain his hand on the man’s sweaty neck using his considerable strength to slam his balding head into the concrete. Kneeling down one foot came down hard on the other man’s wrist, his weight pressing the tendons as he crouched. The open sides of his coat hid the press of his gun against the prone man’s heart, obscuring the weapon from sight as the rest of London avoided their scuffle with the jaded indifference of people who couldn’t really give a shit. Transferring his phone to his other ear he ground on the man’s arm until his wrist twitched open. John barely heard the man’s shout of protest before he was snatching whatever it was in his hand and darting away, leaving him groaning on the ground.

Mycroft was talking in his ear, voice concerned and more than a little angry that John hadn’t been updating to him on what was going on. “Calm down Mycroft!” John rasped into the phone, breathless and aching at this point. Touching the back of his neck he winced at the feel of liquid escaping down the back of it. A glance at his hand showed blood tinging his fingertips vermilion. Looking away he examined where he was., there was a petrol station and behind it, a secluded alleyway. Stumbling into the darkened alley he leaned heavily against the wall, chest heaving with every gasp of breath. He eyed the entrance at the head of the alley worriedly, anticipating someone would come around the corner any moment

“I’ve been injected with something,” John admitted aloud, sniffing his bloodied fingers. “It’s Azaperone probably.” Previous experience told him what the sharp, astringent scent usually meant.

“Hmm, do I want to know how you know what different tranquilizers smell like?” Mycroft questioned, his stupid, quick wit making John laugh despite the situation. “Where were you hit?” John had to hand it to the man, he didn’t sound half as worried as John felt.

“It’s intramuscular, mid-neck. I-shit-I have ten, maybe fifteen minutes before I’m out like a light. Unless it nicked one of my cervical arteries than it’s five minutes tops.” John struggled through the math. He knew from experience that tranquilizer darts were in no way as quick-acting as they showed in the movies, but there were too many factors to consider. If the needle hit an artery, and therefore, his bloodstream he’d be out in minutes. However, if it struck his muscle it would take longer to reach his bloodstream and take him down.

 _That’s not even counting my heightened heart rate._ He thought to himself, feeling a grim sense of foreboding. In his hand the injection device the man had used gleamed. The thing looked like it came straight out of a crappy sci-fi film, all gleaming metal with a small glass window. It was some kind of quick-release injector, the needle, from what he could see, had popped into the syringe immediately after use, safely tucked inside thanks to whatever mechanism controlled that aspect. A quick peer inside showed a thick gauge needle, probably needed to administer the drug quickly. There was something sickening about thinking that someone had jabbed him with that needle without his permission. With the cloudy feeling of shock settling over him he dropped the injector to the ground, unable to hold something so fundamentally wrong.

“Get a taxi John, get a taxi and I’ll meet you at the safe-house,” Mycroft’s was grim, sharp and commanding. It helped, breaking through that fogged, sickening sensation that came along with someone violating him in such away. “I’ll carry you up the steps myself.”

The omega laughed at that, sufficiently distracted, shaking his head to clear it. “You carrying me? How mundane Mycroft.”

“Yes, well we’ve already established I am, in fact, human. Why don’t you focus on getting that taxi.” Mycroft urged.

John rubbed his blood-streaked hand across his face, nodding his agreement as he moved to push himself away from the wall. His legs gave out before he made it a step, turning to treacherous rubber at the knees. The gun in his hand fell to the ground with a clatter. He grunted as he found himself flat on his ass, the world spinning. “Oh.”

“Talk to me John.” The command in Mycroft’s tone had John blinking the star’s from his vision.

“Fuck. Yeah, that hit an artery.” John admitted, feeling remarkably detached from the situation. His head swirled, the vertigo making his stomach cringe. Turning to the side he dry heaved, though there was nothing in his stomach to actually vomit.

“Tell me where you are, I’ll come to you.”

Mycroft’s voice was a distant hum compared to the keening sound of his own blood in his ears. John shook his head, attempting to clear it and remember exactly where he was, “Some alley… Texaco maybe…” He knew what he was saying didn’t make sense, but his brain and his mouth were having difficulty lining up. “I’m fine, ‘m fine. I’s not a heavy dose yet.” If John’s voice slurred he hardly noticed. Molasses slow he managed to get back to his feet. Using the wall for balance he struggled to get one foot in front of the other and made it to the end of the alley.

Hailing a taxi was easier than he thought. He watched it pull up in dazed relief. “73823,” He muttered absently, the taxi number was a bright white on the black car, catching his drug hazed mind. He fell into the interior, the sound of the door dinging aggressively in his ears. He barely made it into the seat. In the process his phone slipped from his fingers, dropping to the floorboards of the vehicle and sliding underneath the driver-side seat. He barely noticed the loss, his mind was a has of drugs, his twisting vision making it even more difficult to think.

“Take me to-” John stuttered to a stop as he looked up into the rear-view mirror and met the seedy brown eyes and a familiar balding features of the man from earlier. The man who had injected him. “Oh…bloody hell, it’s you.” The grinning leer he received in return was tinged with blood from where his lip had split in their earlier scuffle. Barely able to think through the encroaching darkness John weakly moved to grab the doorknob, yanking at it just as the locks on the doors clicked closed with a sharp finality.

He didn’t have a chance to mourn their loss. His vision rushed away in hazy black, his body crumbling to the cab seat as he dropped like a puppet with its strings cut loose. The last thing he was aware of was the scent of the car interiors worn leather as his head lolled loosely on his shoulders and pressed against the seat cushion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nini's Rambles:  
> John is my favorite character, because he is a bit of everything. Strong, good-hearted, modest, quick to anger. So many options really. I’m playing around with his more brutal side in this fic, but I also just want to let him shine as a caring person. There are little moments with Mycroft that still are bringing out that kind John we love. This is also our first real introduction into what exactly Mycroft does, are you excited? I am! It leaves on a bit of a sour note, our poor omega has been kidnapped. Suffice to say John needs some hugs. The next chapter is going to be from Mycroft’s perspective. Our plot is finally building and we are going to get some of those questions answered that we’ve been asking!  
> Take Note:  
> \- Mrs. Hudson seriously needs to update her building, talk about safety hazards!  
> \- John's PTSD is creeping up.  
> -John's left behind a whole lot of evidence in that alleyway
> 
> As always, feed your writers, kudos and comments are much appreciated my smushy faced loves!


	6. Cinnamon and Rosemary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a thing! Cover art is up on the first Chapter, take a look
> 
> If you get a chance check out my other fic, chapter two is up. It's a Deadpool/Peter Parker zombie fic!  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/23749243/chapters/57038275

_Mycroft_

_221B Baker Street_

Mycroft Holmes sat in the back seat of his town car, eyes trained on the laptop in front of him. Inside he was surrounded by the buffered silence of the vehicle’s noise-canceling equipment. Outside he barely caught sight of his men on the ground, baton’s flailing, tasers out and at the ready as they took down the men that had seen fit to attack 221B. He trusted them to do their jobs, and every one of them was handpicked by him or Anthea. They had their part, he had his. Being inside the vehicle, he could not hear the yells or orders of his peons, instead, he was trapped in the prevailing sounds of John’s gasping exhales, broken by curses and choked shouts.

Never before had he felt so discomfited sitting in a premium leather seat, in an air-conditioned vehicle. The fact that he couldn’t actually see the other man was the greatest cause of his discomfort, more so than he’d like to admit. He was always the man who _knew,_ it came with his position. At the drop of a hat he could tell you who was doing what and where they were doing it. He knew the inner workings of all of England, and well beyond. To have his wings clipped in such a way, was up to this point, near unheard of. Just about the only thing he currently knew was that John was being hounded on the dodgy streets of London, and had now admitted to being hit with some sort of knock out drug.

It was driving him mad.

On the screen of his laptop was a display of a map with London’s street cameras marked off, each camera had a red or green light displayed next to it to indicate its functionality and/or accessibility. Currently the Marylebone area was a display of bright red dots that shouldn’t exist. Mycroft was green lit to access any and all city surveillance systems as long as they were physically functional. The likelihood of every camera in the area going down all at once was as close to zero as it could get.

“Talk to me John.” Mycroft spoke up after a few moments of too long silence and listened with grim intent to the sound of John’s labored breath through the bluetooth headset attached to his ear. 

His fingers flashed over the keys to his laptop as he attempted to regain access to the visual feeds from CCTV. His existing permissions had been incapacitated, and while that did make his job difficult, he had proxies in place for such situations.

The fact that he had been locked out in the first place spoke volumes as to the pockets Sir Eddington had lined to get as far as he was. The man was becoming a thorn in his side. A thorn that, so far, he had managed to keep John unaware of, if only to stop the omega from storming Eddington Manor and using his pisspoor negotiating skills to get back Sherlock. 

In his ear John let out a slow hiss of pain and surprise, finally answer Mycroft. “Fuck. Yeah, that hit an artery.” Mycroft shoved back his panic at Johns words. Emotion never promoted clear thinking, and he _needed_ to think clearly before those chasing him found John in such a weakened state. The primary goal was to locate his brother’s omega and bring him to safety. Which meant he needed to gain back access to the cameras.

_Damn that entitled twit. How did he manage to find a hacker with enough skill to lock me out of my own bloody system?_

Most of the skilled ones were employed by Mycroft himself if only to keep the competition of the street and in his capable hands. Eddington was a notorious sneak though; it was more than likely he’d had access like this for years and had never been caught using it before. Typing in the access codes to a backdoor server Mycroft grunted his approval as the red indicator lights on the screen swapped to green.

“Tell me where you are, I’ll come to you.” Mycroft spoke up around the sound of John’s labored breathing.

“Some alley… Texaco maybe…I’m fine, ‘m fine. I’s not a heavy dose yet.” John’s voice was barely coherent, a distant slur of a heavy tongue on lips, barely there as if he could not keep the phone close to his mouth any longer.

 _He’s getting disoriented. Where is he?_ Making a leap of logic Mycroft pulled up a visual of Texaco petrol stations in the area, and narrow his search down to those next to a CCTV camera. Accounting for the potential distance John had traveled on foot he narrowed down his parameters further. Clicking rapidly through his program, he pulled up the footage of each camera that met the criteria he had set. Flashing from one visual to the next, until he caught sight of what he was looking for. He wasn’t surprised to find the lens already pointed in John's direction. His unknown hacker was no doubt manipulating the camera from another location.

“I see you." Mycroft murmured, watching as John took swaying steps towards a black vehicle. "That's it, your doing very well John darling.” Mycroft hardly noticed when the endearment slipped past his lips, not that he could be certain if John heard him. If he had, John did not acknowledge the words.

“73823,” The words echoed through the phone lines as he watched a familiar stocky omega fumble with the handle of a taxi; those same numbers displayed in white vinyl on the back fender. The back of his jacket was stained with dark splotches of blood, as it had been earlier, confirming John’s identity.

Mycroft sighed in relief, watching the grainy, black and white video as John practically flopped into the vehicle. The omega's legs gave out for a moment, and the only thing that kept him up was his death grip on the taxi hood and door.

Mycroft noted the missing gun, John had dropped it somewhere between when he had last seen him and now. It would have been recently, there was no way that John in his right mind would have left behind his weapon, he was far to well trained for that. It pained him to see the normally resilient man so disoriented. Though outwardly Mycroft appeared as calm and collected, as usual, unruffled by the situation.

John finally made it into the vehicle. There was a clanging sound followed by the scuffling of a microphone on fabric and Mycroft scowled as he watched John fumble and drop his phone, or what he had to assume was his phone, the footage was grainy at best. Mycroft cursed under his breath at the loss.

The driver stepped out of the car a moment later, he was tall enough to be an alpha, his bearing indicated a sense of entitlement that some alphas carried with their designation. Shutting the door the man paused and the blur of his face stared up into the camera for a moment before he gave a very deliberate nod in the direction of the camera lens, as if to say mission accomplished.

 _Dammit._ Dread settled into Mycroft’s belly like a twisting serpent, heavy and poisonous. There was no way to communicate with John what he had just seen. The phone was out of John’s reach.

“John, get out, he’s one of them!” Mycroft shouted into the Bluetooth microphone, hoping his voice would be loud enough to get John’s attention. He watched with a gut aching fear in his belly as the driver got into the vehicle again. Watched as the vehicles running lights flared to life.

“Take me to-” He listened to John’s rapid inhale of breath as he realized what was happening, “Oh…bloody hell, it’s you,” He listened with dimming hope to the sound of the car locks activating even as John went silent, only the sound of the vehicle’s engine breaking the silence.

Mycroft reached for his phone end pressed the mute button on his side of the conversation. “God-fucking-dammit!” John’s fearful last words rang in his ears and his fist crashed against the hard metal of the door frame. It was a rare outburst of pure emotion that broke through his normally cool exterior. It had him seeing red, his normally subtle scent bursting hot with cinnamon and sharp rosemary. In the camera footage, he saw the taxi pull away and dropped his head to his hand attempting to gain back some kind of composure.

Breathing slowly in through his nose, Mycroft tried not to dwell on the same feeling of fear that had gripped him when Sherlock had been taken months ago. Eddington henchmen had been the one to take Sherlock than. History repeating itself. Taking another deep breath he reminded himself that the man was in the business of blackmail, not outright murder. The negotiations for Sherlock might have tapered to a standstill, but he had time, he just needed to figure out what to do next.

A knock on the window to his left had him jerking up from the tent of his fingers. Fixing his features with the mask of calm that he normally presented to the world.

Maeve, a member of his team, stood outside, crouched down to peer into the window. Slowly Mycroft rolled down the glass, turning his head to give her his full attention. She nodded in greeting, her nose wrinkled at the scent of strong emotions hanging heavy in the air

“We’ve got ‘em sir. Want to come take a look?” She questioned, her eyes unreadable behind the lenses of her sunglasses. She had a bruise beginning to form on her jawline, a kiss of slowly darkening purple that marred the skin.

“Yes, give us one moment Maeve.” Mycroft rolled up his window and gave a final look at the camera on his screen before turning his eyes to the seat in front of him. Anthea sat there, looking proper in her two-piece dress suit. Her alpha eyes were trained on him, attentive and concerned. Her ever-present phone was curled in her manicured palm. She had direct access to his laptop, and he had no doubt she’d been watching and listening in on the conversation from the very beginning. There was a high probability she was continuing to record the audio from John’s unfortunate ride right this moment, adding the task to her list without even asking.

“While we wait for a ransom call I want you to put a trace on John’s phone, we find where that taxi is going and we find John. This is not going to go the same way it did with Sherlock.” Mycroft ordered. Anthea nodded her head in understanding, already tapping away on her phone.

[ ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lydhd5CGhS1qezvv4.gif)

Thinking rapidly he considered what Sherlock would say in such a situation. “Also, get a team out to that alley-way, call Lestrade in if you have too. Update him on the facts. I want anything that John left behind, I want that gun, if he left blood traces I want samples of it. If you can get any more camera footage, get it. Trace that cab number, see if we can find the owners.” All of those sounded like very Sherlock things to say, his brother would be proud, or maybe royally pissed, depending on his mood. Nodding his head he reached for the door and popped it open, stepping out into the early afternoon sun. Anthea passed him his umbrella and he murmured his thanks, taking the comforting object in hand.

“Oh.” A final thought occurred to him and he bent his tall form to peer into the cab as he thought of something else. “Anthea, if you would be so good as to look into whoever took over my cameras it would be much appreciated. Why don’t you take care of that personally.” She looked up from her notes, an expression of indecent delight overtaking her features. She did so love when her assignments were up close and personal. He had no doubt she would take care of the problem and bring it to a neat and tidy end. Anthea, despite what her appearance and her current job description said, was a highly-skilled bodyguard and assassin. She might appear unassuming and disinterested, but behind that vague exterior was a sharp mind, and an even sharper blade.

Humming his approval he stood up and closed the door behind him. Turning he made his way to Sherlock’s flat. Maeve fell in stride beside him, leading the way across the narrow street. The neighborhood was quiet, but for his men and the cop cars that were only just arriving on the scene. A paramedic stepped out of an ambulance, followed by two others in a similar uniform. One of Mycroft’s men, Cedric, stepped up to the group, holding both his arms in a hold gesture, one hand holding his badge.

“Most of them escaped in the scuffle, Sir. From what we could see it was 6 men at this location. Additionally, there was a secondary vehicle that drove off before we could engage them.” Maeve explained, tone clipped, and to the point. “We _are_ working with civilian authorities since a neighbor called before we could block transmissions coming out of the area.”

Mycroft scowled at that, he preferred a crime scene to be properly vetted by himself and his crews, especially when his loved ones were involved. “Our people know to distract them until we are done resolving any issues?”

“Cedric’s on it.”

“Good-oh, this would be John’s handiwork, I see.” Mycroft murmured, coming into the hallway and upon the first body. He raised an eyebrow at the dead beta sprawled down the front staircase. The bullet went through and through, a center shot to his forehead, quick, brutal, to the point. Mycroft had to admire John’s aim. His eyes skimmed over the already garish wallpaper, which had been made more so by the spray of blood and body matter across its tacky exterior.

Mrs.Hudson’s telly was playing loud from her open door, the newscaster talking rapidly about a young man who had escaped St. Bartholomews without doctor authorization.

“24-year-old August Walker has been in a two month-long coma and is believed to be mentally unstable. If anyone has seen-” The droning background noise offered an oddly domestic background to what was a rather grim sight.

“There’s another one upstairs, alive.” Maeve interrupted his musings.

“Very well, let us continue.” Mycroft nodded, he recalled John stating that he’d left behind two men. He took care to step over splayed limbs and away from bloody matter on his way up the steep staircase.

His breath came out in a rush as he stepped into the downed remains of 221B. Ignoring the second man, who was currently being catered to, he stopped to look at the rest of Sherlock and John’s modest belongings. Much of it was tossed and overturned from whatever struggle John had put up. Blood decorated the floor and wall, spelling out the fight in gruesome lines and splatters.

It was somehow worse, seeing his brother’s little sanctuary destroyed like this, bringing home what the body on the landing had not. His eyes latched on to the twisted remains of Sherlock’s violin. How desperate must John have been, to use such a thing as a weapon?

The scent of cinnamon grew tenfold, causing the men that were tending to the injured omega to jerk their heads up in unison. Mycroft breathed through his nose, pushing down those wretchedly human feelings to deal with later. Stepping forward he lets his umbrella click sharply against the wooden floor and stopped in front of the downed omega. Clinically he eyed the pool of blood gathered around the man’s prone form, emanating from two very obvious gunshot wounds, one to each knee. It was only thanks to two makeshift tourniquets that the man had not bleed out and died yet.

“Lovely, I see you’ve treated the wounds.” Mycroft jerked his head to the two men, sending them off to take care of things.

Maeve stepped in next to him, pursing her lips. “Meet Eric Bates. According to the credit card, it’s stolen, but it puts a name to the face.” She waved the piece of plastic.

The omega was ghostly pale and glared at Mycroft with suspicious eyes. The white of his left eye was blood red from a subconjunctival hemorrhage. The most likely cause was the orbital bone fracture to his left cheekbone. Mycroft could see the slight depression and the blossoming bruise under it.

“What did he do, headbutt you?” Mycroft questioned, raising one russet brow. The glob of spittle aimed his way a moment later was answer enough. Raw pride lit up Mycroft’s belly at that, at least John had the chance to put up a fight. “Well, John is quite hard-headed, as you have seen, in all senses of the phrase.” The beta waved a hand, taking in the blooded and damaged remains of 221B.

“Fuck off you fat toff. I ain’t tellin’ you shit, take my soul to the grave.” The omega shouted, his words devolving to nothing but vitriolic curses.

“Hmm… is that so.” Almost absently he looked down, his eyes catching on the busted soles of the omega’s shoes. Lifting his umbrella Mycroft used the point to press on the toe of Mr.Bate’s shoe, twisting the bottom of his foot up into the yellow light coming from the overhead fixture. “Ah….that would explain things,” Mycroft spoke over Eric’s shrieks of pain as his tendons pulled on traumatized tissue.

Pulling his phone from his pocket he unlocked it and brought up his most recent text from John. It was a well-focused picture of a shoeprint, with a quarter from John’s pocket dropped for size comparison. The photograph had been taken only the day before when they had been interrupted at the warehouses.

Mycroft let go of the omega’s foot, checking the ferrule of his umbrella for any lingering blood. “Yes, quite the same. Size eight, do you agree Maeve?”

[ ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/2b578c87aa51affcc251295ba0f7ddc6/05fd181ecc7dd178-fe/s400x600/f4422de8280a916053d41a08a06fcba7a1a3eff5.gif)

Maeve didn’t bother guessing, crouching just shy of the puddle of blood and flipping the tongue of Mr.Bate’s shoe down to expose the inner tag. The woman was ever to the point. “Correct Sir,” She agreed, standing up

“Well and good, load him up, I want him out the door and to our facility before the police get their hands on him.”

“Wha-your mad! I ain’t goin’ with you.” Eric Bates howled in protest, his voice turning meek and terrified. He had probably hoped to start a stay in the hospital, where his people would get a chance to break him out. They’d be more likely to just kill him, he was a liability at best.

Stepping away from the bloody scene Mycroft headed to the back of the apartment, directing himself down the hall that led to Sherlock and John’s rooms. Sherlock’s room was first and Mycroft tried the knob. It was locked, dear John had taken precautions. With a thrust of his shoulder he lifted on the knob and used the leverage of to pop the latch out of the door frame. It was an old trick, used back when Sherlock was at high risk of overdosing.

His eyes flickered over the tossed books on the floor and the open window. He closed it before he made his way over to the side-table drawer and slid it open. As he had expected, John’s gun sat in the drawer, tucked in among old pill bottles and of all things, a fox skull. Taking the gun he checked the safety before sliding it into the back of his trousers, the back of his suit-jacket hiding the bulge from sight. 

They already had trouble enough on their hands, an unregistered gun shouldn’t add to the problem. Shuffling the contents of the drawer around to fill in the vacant space he closed the drawer and stepped out of the room, heading down the hall with one last glance around the house. 

He barely made it past the beta’s cooling corpse before he was being summoned.

“Mycroft Holmes!” The voice was immediately recognizable, and Mycroft scowled, turning to face Detective Inspector Lestrade with a deep scowl that had the man pausing in his steps.

“You, are supposed to be at that alley, gathering evidence,” Mycroft spoke up, raising a thin eyebrow, his voice ripe with annoyance.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow of his own. “That’s what I have detectives for.” He reminded, and Mycroft snorts under his breath, remembering when he had told John that same thing only a bit ago. “ Donovan and Anderson are there now.”

“That would be the two incompetent idiots Shirley enjoys discussing?” Mycroft crossed his arms. Honestly, he was aware the two detectives were above par compared to the rest of New Scotland Yard, they did their job well. It was hardly their fault that anyone would look like an idiot next to his brother. That was not the point, Lestrade was one of the only men he could trust, he would prefer all evidence be handled by the alpha.

“Yes, well, with all due respect, Sherlock’s gone. They’re the best we have. I have it under control. Tell me what has happened? Why are you destroying our chain of evidence? This is beyond grounds to bring you in, Holmes.”

Mycroft’s hand tightened on the wooden handle to his umbrella, he had already considered bringing Lestrade in, but the list of people who he had working this case was dwindling rapidly. There was a high degree of likelihood that if he brought in anyone else to try and takedown Eddington, they would end up dead.

“Do calm down Detective, we’ve left what we can to you and your boys. The rest is considered classified and falls under the sway of her Majesty. It is well above your pay grade, old chap. As for the rest of it,” Mycroft dragged in a calming breath, glancing towards the open door to 221. “John is missing, and very much in danger. I need everything you find out there analyzed and sent to my people. I-I want them back Lestrade.” Mycroft heard his voice crack, felt the painful emotions attempt to come up from where he’d buried them deep inside.

 _John is missing. Sherlock is missing. Both gone._ The thought felt dreadfully close to admitting defeat. Mycroft straightened in place, locking his knees in an attempted to push back the malaise. In front of him Lestrade’s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed with the telltale signs of concern. Leaning into Mycroft’s space he drew in a deep breath. Whatever he smelled most have answered his question since his eyes softened with sadness.

“It’s like that then?” He questioned.

Mycroft thought about hitting the grey-haired dolt over the head but instead opted for taking the high road and turned away, telling himself it was not a retreat, even as his steps took him back to his vehicle. Anthea stood next to the door, and she opened it for him as he came close. He knew her well enough to see the tension in the shoulders, the anger in the set of her chin.

“Tell me what you have found.” He commanded, slipping into the back seat and waiting for her to follow suit.

She sighed, “It’s not what I’ve found. It’s what was sent to me.” Brow wrinkled with concern she flipped it over to face him. In high color detail on the screen was an unconscious John Watson. His skin was a lurid display of deep purple and harsh red. Around his neck Mycroft could see the outline of a choke line. The omega was a beaten and bruised remnant of what he looked like the day before. By John’s head was a note, written in jagged red marker on yellowing paper.

> _'Look what we found.'  
>  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nini’s Rambles:  
> Mycroft is a tough nugget to write. I needed to give him all of the emotions, without any of the visible proof. He’s a study in masks really. Along with that I really wanted to give the poor man a purpose. We never really find out what he does exactly, he’s a shadow figure, who just sort of appears to solve or cause chaos. (I’ve never watched the last season, so perhaps my opinions aren’t complete) Either way, given the route this story is heading, he needs a bit more character. I’ve assigned him the “techy” guy position, but with more power and say so. I like the concept of him teaming up with our original duo sometime in the future, much like he did would John, and just helping them kick butt!  
> Take note:  
> \- We finally know the name of our bad guy  
> -We find out that Mycroft has been hiding a whole bunch from John  
> \- Our mysterious interloper from the warehouse is also the omega that tried to kill John!  
> The mystery unravels!
> 
> Feed your writers, feed us good, feed as a balanced diet of kudos and comments.


	7. Rot and Decay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing inspiration for this chapter was the song An Evening I Will Not Forget by Dermot Kennedy

_Sherlock_

_February 24_ _ th _ _\- Three months, Nine days Ago_

Sherlock stood on the sidewalk outside an old and ugly bricked apartment building. His eyes scanned the boarded-up windows, examined with a critical eye the seams of mortar, the mildewed siding, and rotting shutters. All in all he would say the location was pretty on par with every other location he’d been to this week. Which was to say, it was run down, and one step away from being considered a hazard to society. Why it hadn't' been red-tagged and closed up was beyond him. The last time he had come across one of these buildings with running electricity had been weeks ago. 

It was Greg Eddington’s work, of that he was certain, the man was somehow always one step ahead. Whatever informants Eddington used, they had to be good, highly skilled. The mysterious man knew when Sherlock was coming. New exactly what locations the detective had discovered and emptied them before Sherlock ever had the chance to see the inner workings of his laboratories. As far as Sherlock could tell the man was closing the doors on all of his inner-city back door medical wards, taking his research, his people, and his victims with him. Every day Sherlock went without a break in this blighted cases more and more people would be taken away, never to be found again.

The missing went back five years. Five whole years of evidence lost thanks to poor detective work and weak evidence. It had taken that long for authorities to notice a pattern and the uptick in the number of cases. Even then, it only came to Mycroft's notice when some well off couple, with high up connections, had their daughter taken.

From there everything had unraveled, a dark, dirty entanglement of medical experimentation and human trafficking. Or at least that is what Sherlock’s research had shown. The fact that Sherlock had up to this point, not found a single one of Eddington’s victims perhaps warranted the most concern. To his knowledge, no reports had surfaced mentioning botched kidnapping attempts. No families had come forward about their missing family members, because, for the most part Eddington took those people who wouldn’t be missed. The homeless and drug-addled, the ill and dying. Along with that an increase in unclaimed cadavers was never noted at the city morgue. If people knew, they weren’t talking or were dead and gone.

There was a growing list of at least 100 missing men and woman that had been abducted, taken off the street or from their homes, never to be seen again. Not one mistake, not one escapee, out of more than one-hundred people. That success rate was remarkable in Sherlock’s eyes.

He stepped into the dimly lit building through the broken hinged entryway and had to push down the feeling that this place would be another let down in a series of greater and greater failings. This was the fourth such building he had come upon, every one of them was an empty and abandoned, sometimes only hours before he’d arrived. This one was much the same as the others, a grim little hovel filled with empty flats. Rooms that experience had taught him, used to be filled with medical equipment and scientists. He’d come across reams of meaningless research, broken test tubes, and twisted IV bags in previous locations. Molly was assisting in analyzing the fluids inside of the IV bags, he’d had to send the research to a larger medical lab that dealt with such things.

This location contained only useless odds and ends spewed across the floor, left behind from the previous occupants in their hast to leave. None of it would be relevant, though he thought he would do a more thorough examination in the morning, when the sun shone high and the sky and allowed more light in. 

_Useless. Pointless._ Sherlock thought pale eyes flashed over the trash-strewn floor. Despite his feelings he felt something draw him deep into the building. A sound, or maybe a scuttle of movement deep in its recesses caught his attention. Torch light at his side he peered from room to room, searching for something, anything.

He found it in the room the furthest down the hallway. Heard it in soft, rasping gasps of pain and quite, fearful moans, that only an alpha’s keen ears might have been able to pick up. Reaching out with one leather-clad foot he opened the last door on the left with a light push of his toe. The hinge creaked hideously loud in the echoing darkness, opening the way to the dark recess of a windowless room, a storage cabinet, or janitorial closet possibly.

There was a scuffle of movement in the dark, a moaning sob that would have sent those with a lesser spirit running. Sherlock turned his light to the movement, twisted his wrist until the torchlight landed on a small figure crumbled in the corner of the room. Sherlock was not in close enough proximity to see full details, but even from this distance he could see that the other man’s short stature and small hands were indicative of an omega. Furthermore, the exposed skin of his dirty hands was wrinkle-free and unthinned by age, speaking of a younger individual.

“Hello?” Sherlock’s baritone reverberated against the empty walls as he stepped inside the cramped room. Goosebumps rose on the skin of his forearms as a light breeze dusted his skin. A glance upwards showed damaged and cracked ceiling tiles, which created the shivering draft. From the small man’s form came the keening sound of an omega in fear. The sound tugged at his alpha instincts it was only past experience that stopped him from rushing to the unknown omega's side. Instead he took a calm step forward. “I won’t hurt you, can you tell me your name?” Slowly he walked towards the lone figure, hands up in an attempt to show he was no threat. The omega shifted and twisted at the sound of his voice, squeezing himself tighter into the corner of the wall he hid against. 

“August.” Came the soft reply to his question after a moment of consideration on the young man's part. Sherlock nodded his head in greeting just as he came up close enough to make out the finer details of the person before him. It was the hair that caught his attention first, once sunkissed, it now lies lanky and weighed down by sweat against his forehead. It was a dirty blond so close to the color of John’s that it made Sherlock flinch. He forced himself forward to bring the young man closer into the ray of the lamplight. This close the smell of infection had settled in a cloud around the man, the scent only got only stronger as Sherlock settled on his haunches beside him and reached out to gently tug down the arm that August hid behind.

Vivid blue eyes, bloodshot, and wide with fear met his. Eyes so like John’s, but filled with anxiety and misery. Sherlock starred into those fearful orbs in stunned fascination. Logic told him it wasn’t the same man. He’d left John sitting at home that morning, drinking his tea and eating beans on toast, as was his tendency. He had just returned from an all-night shift and the fog of exhaustion that usually accompanied him after a night at the A&E had hung heavy on his shoulder. The chance of him leaving the house before five was in the lower tenth percentile. Which meant the chance of John being here, in this state were even lower. Yet the similarities were striking.

Painfully so.

This close he could see the difference between August and John, a slightly rounder face, skin too pale, eyebrows too thin, younger by fifteen years at the least, body soft from a desk job. Along with that his skin was red-rimmed around his eyes, puffy and swollen from pain, or maybe tears. There were other differences too, differences of a medical nature. Large blue veins stood out at his neck and crept up his face, stark and standing out against pale skin. The open sores around his mouth and neck were the worst. Leaking putrid fluids in tones of green and pus yellow. 

“Can you tell me what happened to you?” Sherlock questioned, his lips pursed into a thin line. He hoped his distress wasn’t as obvious as he felt it was. Though he had never been able to hide his emotions the way Mycroft could, so they were probably written plain as day on his features.

 _You’re a damn open book._ John had told him once, tone warm and cheerful, the mirth in his eyes exposed by the crinkles of golden skin at the corners, _I don’t see how anyone can call you a sociopath._ It’d been one of the nicest compliments he had ever received, he kept the memory of it in his Mind Palace, safe and treasured. Which was neither here, nor there really, other than the fact that his mind kept trying to impose John’s beloved features over this strangers face.

August rubbed a shaking hand over his face, moaning. “They…they left-I hid.” He explained, to distress to get much out through his terrified chattering teeth. His eyes flickered over to a doorway on Sherlock's left, another closet, the open door streaked with messy handprints. “Please help, please, I need a doctor.” He croaked, voice cracking as he reached for Sherlock, fingers twisting in the lapels of the alpha’s jacket. His grip was shockingly strong, yanking Sherlock down to his level with ease.

The ferocity of August's strength left the detective momentarily stunned, so that when the young man pulled him close he didn't voice a protest, and instead he was hit by the omega’s sickly scent. This close the smell of illness and infection was strong, though he was able to push those scents aside with the ease of a man who regularly played with pickled bodyparts. It was the utter lack of any other sent, though, that had Sherlock flinching back. Inhaling he took in a lungful of moldy air, nothing. None of the scent indicators of an omega lingered in August. In fact, the blond was a blank nothingness in the room. He had none of the bright sharp scents of an omega, or the soothing barely-there scent of a beta, even the powerful overwhelming alpha scent was strangely lacking. As far as Sherlock’s senses could see, the man did not exist.

A sensory black hole.

In his arms August took up that aching Omega Wail again, but there were none of the scent triggers that would have told Sherlock what the young man needed. Sherlock cringed, his instincts screaming to _help_ , this was John, John crying in need. It did not help that he had never actually heard John make such a sound before. That John was resilient, and self-reliant, and would more than likely call him a twit for even trying to step in as an alpha would. His damned mind wad playing tricks on him, replacing the young man with someone much old and so much more dear.

 _It’s not him, stop it!_ Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear out the sound. In front of him August, not John, was growing more distressed. When his cries brought no relief he resorted to words, his hands dug like claws at the wool of Sherlock’s coat. “Help me-help-help!” August broke down into gibbering snarls and sobs. He rocked in Sherlock’s arms, his movements becoming more and more violent the longer Sherlock went without understanding his scent cues. Before Sherlock realized what was happening the young man was lunging forward, using his grip on Sherlock’s coat for leverage as his teeth snapped only millimeter’s from Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock jerked back out of reach on instinct and training alone. He hadn’t thought August capable of such speed. He came up short when the omega’s hands stayed tight in his coat. The torch in his hands made a quick work of breaking the connection, slapping aside the man’s keen grip until August let go of his coat with a snarl. Sherlock felt his hand scrap against sharp teeth, felt sharp teeth bite quick and hard, but the move managed to get the ill man off of him. August’s broken body fell back against the dusty drywall, manic, snarling crazed nonsense under his breath. Stumbling to his feet Sherlock watched with fascination as August’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. The seizure hit only moment’s later, sending limbs flying and spittle foaming out of his pus stained mouth. 

It only took only a moment to reach into his pocket and pull out his cellphone, dialing 999 was a relief. Eyeing the bite wound on the back of his palm he grimaced as the phone rang against his ear.

“Hello, Emergency Service operator. Which service do you require?” The phone picked up, a generic women’s voice answering on the other side of the line.

“Ambulance.”

"Please hold."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and waited for the classic response. These things took an inordinate amount of time.

* * *

Hours later Sherlock took the steps from New Scotland Yard two at a time, his long legs taking him into the darkened twilight of Westminster. After the stagnant warmth of the police headquarters the city air was almost refreshing. It’d been hours since he’d found August and called the ambulance. He did so hate giving police reports. A missing person, no matter how sickly, did not fall under Lestrade’s division, so he hadn’t been able to shove the paperwork off on the detective. Needless to say it had been tedious and terribly dull, doting his I’s and crossing his T’s. Unfortunately, absolutely none of it had distracted his mind from the horrible sightof the young man with John Watson’s face.

The night was damp and cold, as it tended to be this time of year. His breath fogged from his lips in a bellowing gust, disappearing in the humidity of the air in seconds. Taking a moment to himself he paused on the street edge, looking out over the River Thames. His eyes lingered over the dark blue water, lapping at the edge of the Westminster Pier. The lights from the Ferris-wheel across the way reflecting bright azure across the surface of the river.

Blue like John’s eyes.

Blue like the desperate light in the eyes of a young omega broken and abandoned in a derelict building. Blue like the stark, bright veins that had stood out against the boy's neck in unnatural lines. Wrapping his Belstaff in tight around his thin frame he scowled, attempting to banish the painful visual through his mind.

He could not bring himself to cast them out though, they lingered in his mind like seeping poison, making his heart pulse high and hot in his throat, and his tongue dry out in his mouth. Closing his eyes to the night sky he tried to breathe past that unfamiliar feeling.

Recognizing one's mortality was always a bit of a downer, recognizing the mortality of the man he had been harboring feelings for during the past two or more years was possibly worse.

 _If that had been John…_ The thought rolls around and around in his head, a hot marble of molten metal that sears everything it touches. If John had been the one strapped down onto a gurney, keening that horrible omega cry, begging for help that could not be provided. What would he have done than? He supposed this might be what John talked about when he asked Sherlock to, “Show a bit of empathy.”

 _Empathy is a terrible emotion,_ Sherlock thought, pressing a large palm over his face, digging at his eyes with thumb and forefinger to rub away the salty crust that had lingered on his lashes since he’d watched the ambulance crew take young August away. 

He’d been thinking at the time how horrible it would be to watch John being taken away on a gurney without ever telling the man his feelings. Without ever saying the words that hung on his tongue at the end of every one of their interactions. _I love you._ It was a phrase ridiculously sentimental to the core, he was certain Mycroft would have a conniption at the very thought of him saying it aloud.

His own line of thought was much the same. He had in the past attempted to tell John his feelings, three times now, to be exact. Three times he had worked up the courage to tell John exactly what his heart said, and three times he’d shoved those damned emotions down deep, like the ridiculous drivel that they were. Useless emotions that muddle up the work.

It all came down to the math in the end. His mind reminding him that if he said those three words aloud than there was at least a fifty percent chance that John would reject him. Take into account John’s general preference for alpha females, and his odds were closer to seventy-five percent chance of being rejected. If that were to happen Sherlock was certain it would ruin their friendship, there was no going back after a profession of love. It would stick in John’s mind and rip at Sherlock’s heart; poisoning their friendship and ruining the little slice of perfection that they had created together.

So he kept his mouth shut because being John’s friend was better than not having John at all.

“Being John’s friend is better than not having John at all.” Sherlock spoke to the night, to the ornate old-style lamps that lined the peer, to the inky blue river that taunted him. Dragging in a slow, deep breath, he filled his lungs with the chilled night air and slowly exhaled, pushing down the panic and fear seeing August had brought to the surface. “Being John’s friend is better than not having John at all,” The words repeated again, painful but true.

He let those words reiterate as a mantra in the forefront of his mind as he took his feet towards the Underground subway. It helped, it reminded him exactly why he hadn’t confessed up to this moment, reminded him that only an imbecile would throw away years of a solid platonic relationship for a twenty-five percent chance of something more.

Taking out his phone he typed a rapid message and hit send.

_Sherlock 2/24 8:37 - On my way._

A moment later his own phone pinged with a response.

_John 2/24 8:38 - Finally! I’ve got takeout in the fridge._

Sherlock hummed under his breath, calmed just by John’s response. Tucking his phone away in his pocket he took the steps down to the Underground, shoulder’s bowed in thought. Pulling his travelcard from his wallet he scanned it at the checkstation and stepped onto the Jubilee Line, letting the subway blitz him home. _Yes, best leave things as they are._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a bit of a flare for the dramatic, so his chapters are heavy on introspection. I imagine him just thinking these deep, complex thoughts, feeling these emotions that maybe he’s never felt before. He’s a bit melodramatic, but it’s exactly what should be expected out of a man who mopes around and fuss so much. 
> 
> Next chapter we are finally going to hit those sexy times hinted at in the tags. It won’t have any significant plot points in it, other than them getting together, so you’ll be able to skip if this is something you don’t appreciate!  
> Take Note:  
> -There are some huge plot points addressed in this chapter. We found out more about Eddington and what Sherlock has discovered so far.  
> -Remember the name August from the television program Mycroft was hearing? Keep that in mind.  
> \- Sherlock’s been bit, which, given the tags for this story, could have so major repercussions.
> 
> Pwease leave me feedback. I needs it for life. Kudos and comments are loved!


	8. Honey and Wheat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Sexually Explicit scenes below. If you aren't interested in reading then pop back in for the next chapter.

_Sherlock_

_February 24_ _ th _ _\- Three months, Nine days Ago_

Less than fifteen minutes later Sherlock trudged his way up the lit stairwell to their flat, his shoes gathered in one hand, his greatcoat folded over the crook of his other arm. Stockinged feet picked their way silently up the stairs. The knob to their door was cool to the touch and opened with a drowsy creak.

He was greeted with the smell of Chinese takeout and the sight of John’s back as he faced the microwave, no doubt reheating the food. The sight of him had Sherlock’s heart in his throat. He looked homey and comfortable in a set of worn jeans and a black tee that was rucked up one hip in a way that said he’d been sitting on the couch only moments before. His hair was still damp from a shower, left to dry without a fuss.

“You’re back!” The words were called over John’s shoulder as the microwave binged. He didn’t bother looking up from his task, so he probably missed the look on Sherlock’s face as he got an eye-full of a healthy, uninjured John Watson. Sherlock tutted in greeting, unable to get much else out past the swell in his throat. Depositing his shoes at the door and his coat on the rack calmed some of that jittery feeling in his chest. Running a hand through his hair he turned back to the kitchen just as John turned around from the microwave.

“So, how’d it go, any breaks in the case?” He questioned, popping a small morsel of something in his mouth as he spoke. His tongue darted out to lap at his thumb. Sherlock watched the small peak of pink flesh dip out of John’s lips before slipping back inside the hollow of his mouth. 

The sight had Sherlock’s heart racing with a combination of unrequited desire and utter terror. It settled for the latter, he felt himself pale and quickly had to look away from those succulent lips, before his damn brain shut down entirely. If only he didn’t choose to turn his eyes up, pale eyes making contact with blue ones and locking there.

“Sherlock?” He watched as slow concern filled John’s eyes, causing the furrow of his brow to wrinkle. Watched as those lips of his turned down into the smallest of frowns. Stepping around the table John settled with one hip cocked against the edge of the tabletop, his “good” leg taking all the weight while his other settled for kicking in the air.

He wasn’t wearing any socks, why wasn’t he wearing socks?

“Hey, what’s wrong, you look…sad.” Sherlock blinked, sufficiently distracted from the pale expanse of John’s toes. Thinking about John’s words he supposed that was what the emotion was, sadness. Sadness over not having the one thing he truly ever craved. How could one miss somebody that was standing right in front of them?

[ ](https://data.whicdn.com/images/101003746/original.gif)

He was distracted again, his mind trailing off into melancholy.

John reached out a hand, maybe waved it in an effort to gain Sherlock’s attention, his blunt fingertips flickering through the air. It attracted Sherlock’s attention, a moth to the metaphorical flame. That small, simple gesture, combined with the worry in John’s voice broke whatever resolve Sherlock had bolstered himself with on the ride home.

It took two strides to make it across the room and bring himself up into John’s space, taking the omega’s outstretched palm and tugging him close. His other hand slipped upward, sliding over the swell of John’s jaw to yank the blond’s head up so he could see John warm features, bright and stunning. He caught a glimpse of John’s eyes widening in shocked surprise before he was bending his taller form down and pressing their lips together in a desperate clash of teeth and soft warm lips.

Underneath all the desperate need he was expecting John to jerk away, or maybe to go still in his arms, stunned. What he didn’t expect was for fingers to fist into the locks of his hair and yank him down further bowing his shoulders until he was enveloping John’s more compact frame with his own. The move was just as desperate and had all of the need that Sherlock felt.

“Fucking finally!” John groaned against his lips, latching onto his mouth with an eager moan that went right down to Sherlock’s groin. Every cell in Sherlock’s brain sang out with pure joy. The scent of John warm honey, mixed with hints of ash and sun-soaked-wheat enveloped his senses, hot and warm, and so John that it took him higher than any drug ever had. He inhaled a desperate, gasp of air against John’s cheek, needing that scent deep in his sinuses. It felt so damn right, deep down into his core.

“John?!” He moaned the omega’s name, the one word evoking all the aching need and watery emotions that he’d been feeling all night. Desperate for more Sherlock slid his palm along John’s jaw and back to cup the swell of John’s neck. The hairs at the back of his neck were damp from his shower, soft to the touch. He growled his approval as the older man stumbled backward until he leaned against the table again. Tilting his head their tongues met with an eager curl of muscle on muscle, pressing and tangling together in gasping hot breaths. John tasted of garlic and peppers, the heat of whatever he’d eaten transferring to Sherlock’s lips in tantalizing sparks. His lips were warm and enthusiastic, and like nothing, Sherlock could have ever imagined.

John seemed to give in to some inner need and dropped his hold in Sherlock’s hair, instead using his palms as he hopped up onto the table, shimmying onto the wood with a roll of his hips. Sherlock moved with him, dropping his hands to grip the back of John’s legs and help him up. Moaning his approval John spread his legs to give Sherlock room to ease between them. Sherlock took the invitation for what it was, crowding the space between John’s legs until his aching hardness butted up against John’s eager erection. Both of them spurred into overeager excitement just from the shock of coming together. John whined low in his throat, one leg shifting up to latch around Sherlock’s hip so that he could grind them together, eager and wanton.

Sherlock sighed as John abandoned his lips to mouth down the length of his neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses, punctuated by soft sounds as Sherlock took advantage of his spread legs to grind their cloth-covered sexes together. Sherlock’s mouth was tucked against the side of John’s head, tonguing lightly at the lobe of John’s ear, nose pressed to the scent gland just behind it. 

“Holy-christ…how is this even happening.” John groaned against the swell of Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock just chuckled, equally as confused as John, his lips flashing into a smile that John could probably feel against his skin. Shrugging his shoulders Sherlock slid his fingers up under the hem of John’s shirt, forcing it higher until he caught sight of the tan expanse of John’s belly.

“Is this okay?” Sherlock questioned, dragging his hands up warm skin and slightly soft abs. John’s belly jumped under his touch, tense, probably from the nighttime chill that still lingered on Sherlock’s fingers.

“What?” Jerking back from his position against Sherlock’s neck John gave Sherlock a lookup consternation, “Don’t start asking permission now Sherlock!” His pupils were blown wide with desire, his pulse raced at his neck. He was just as eager as Sherlock felt, and maybe a little bit pissed at the question. Sherlock laughed, wiping the look off John’s face by dropping to his knees in front of the omega and pressing a kiss to the light trail of hair that descended from his belly button to delve beneath the waist of his jeans. There wasn’t room for any nerves, not with John there, confident and demanding.

He watched as John fell back on his elbows, leaning heavily on the wood of the table. “Bloody hell, that’s more than okay.” He gasped, the scent of his arousal growing, a bouquet of burnt sugar with undertones of almond. Sherlock sucked on one exposed hip bone, his fingers working at the button to John’s trouser’s, sliding the zip down with a hiss of sound.

“John Watson, you have quite the mouth on you like this.” Sherlock grinned, biting the band to John’s briefs, one hand supporting the arch of John’s back, the other sliding against the rigid swell of his cock, seeking the outline of its shape, thick and hard to the touch.

“W-well-shite,” John stuttered breathlessly, his eyes turning up to the ceiling as he attempted to think past the moment, his words breaking as he thrust up against the pressure of Sherlock’s palm. “You can blame it on yourself, you beast- God Sherlock, if you tease me anymore I swear I’m going to come in my pants.” John croaked, shifting off his elbows so he could squirm his trouser’s off his hips, kicking them to the side with an impatient shake of his foot.

His briefs underneath were black, and clung to his thighs like a second skin, leaving very little to the imagination. Sherlock settled back on his heels, drinking in the sight. “Take off that top of yours.” He purred, his voice deep with need.

John chuckled, his elbows slipped out from underneath him as he slumped bonelessly on the table. His chest rose and fell in rapid gasps. Breathing in a calming breath he seemed to consider the ceiling for a moment, “Not before you buy a lad a drink, right?” He lifted his head from the table and gave Sherlock a mischievous raise of his eyebrow. The pale length of his foot lifted up and shoved at Sherlock playfully, taking away any sting the words might have had.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in return and watched as John hopped off the table on a fighter’s light feet, his cock bouncing in the sling of his briefs. “Sounds only proper.” Sherlock followed him into a standing position and reached out, tugging John into a kiss before he could turn away. John sighed in appreciation, moving in close, his fingers deftly unbuttoned Sherlock’s plum-colored top and then preceded to yank it free from the waistband of his trousers. Sherlock sucked in a breath as his skin hit cool air. John’s murmur of approval hitting low in his belly as the older man stepped back and admired his handiwork, one palm reaching up to caress Sherlock’s nipple and down the length of his belly, hot and warm. A brand to the skin, a claim directly from John's hand.

“Come on then.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow as John slipped past him and made a detour to the liquor cabinet to bring down a bottle of brandy, waving for Sherlock to follow with the three fingers that weren’t gripping the bottle by the neck. Sherlock shook his head, laughing under his breath, but followed behind John anyway. “I’m not gonna have our first shag be on the kitchen table with Mrs. Hudson getting an earful downstairs.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at that, undoing the cuffs to his shirt so he could shrug it off his shoulders and drop it into the curve of his palm. As an afterthought he turned back to the flat door and took the few steps to send the lock home on the door. “You have a point, but ‘shag,’ really John?” He questioned and raised his voice so John could hear him from the other room. He tried to sound casual, even though his mind was on fire with the fact that he and John were becoming…something. He’d need more data to give this new level to their relationship a label.

“I’m an army man darling. But of course, you’re a romantic, shall I call it ‘making love’?” John questioned from Sherlock's room, his voice dropping down an octave as Sherlock stepped into the room. Sherlock stopped at the doorway, hip cocking against the wood frame, as he sucked in a breath of appreciation at the sight that waited for him. The shirt in his hand dropped to the floor in a spill of expensive silk.

John lie sprawled on the bed, completely nude, and displayed in all his glory. He was nothing but well-used muscles and sun-kissed skin; he looked like a lured picture picked right from Sherlock’s deepest fantasies. The omega’s cock rested ruddy and heavy against his belly and bobbed slightly under the weight of Sherlock’s gaze.

On the bed John swallowed, and for a moment Sherlock caught a flicker of self-consciousness, a tremor of nerves that John hides behind the neck of the bottle of brandy as he brings it to his lips. Sherlock doesn’t hold it against him, his own heartbeat is rattling in his chest like an excited caged bird. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, considering the sight before him. John’s tan skin pairs well with the burgundy of Sherlock’s duvet. Gold and garnet, and oh so-

“Lovely.” The words spill from Sherlock’s lips before he even thinks. John blinked, and for the first time a bright flush stained across his cheeks, a shy smile tugging the edge of his lips even as his deep blue eyes flashed away. _Embarrassed? He’s lying there like a Greek statue and a compliment makes him uncomfortable?_ John is nothing if not complex.

“See, you are a romantic.” John pointed out, lifting the bottle for another swig, hiding again. Sherlock rolled his eyes, he’d never heard anyone complain about a bit of romance before. “And from my angle, also far too dressed.” The blond added with a wink, his bicep flexing as he held out the brandy for Sherlock to take.

“I think you like being romanced.” Sherlock shoved off the door frame with his shoulder, left hand shoving an errant curl of hair off his forehead as his right reached for the bottle. Looking into John’s eyes he brought the bottle to his lips. His adam’s apple worked as he swallowed down a liberal mouthful, the burn of the alcohol heating its way down into his empty belly. John’s eyes latched onto the movement of his throat then slid downward as Sherlock set to work on the buckle of his belt, slipping the leather through the buckle until it came undone. Sherlock thrived from the other man's eyes on him, his own eyes going dark and eager. 

John watched with rapt fascination, palming the stiff swell of his sex and dropping back against the pillows with a needy sigh. _Positively edible._ Sherlock thought as he deposited the bottle of brandy on the nightstand. A deep alpha growl of approval rumbled in his chest as John worked himself up to a full erection with a couple swipes of his palm, not even remotely self-conscious. All the while thinking it was was worth observing that it wasn’t the physical that made John blush.

Undoing his own trousers he let them fall to the ground near John’s briefs, his own undergarments, and socks following suit moments later. John purred his own approval, the scent of arousal biting sharp and warm in the air, his eyes lingering over Sherlock’s exposed body. The scent of pleased, comfortable omega lingered in Sherlock’s nose, urging him forward.

Sherlock crawled onto the bed, spreading John’s legs and blanketing himself on top of the omega until they lined up hip to hip. They both gasped, eyes locking, as cock brushed against achingly hard cock. He dropped immediately to John’s lips, biting his lower lip until the older man opened his mouth with a throaty groan and let Sherlock in. They kiss long and slow, exploring each other with tongues that taste of brandy and hands that feel like fire on the skin, hot and achingly familiar, for all that they have never done this before. How many times had he imagined clutching his hands around the swell of John’s arse? The press of his fingertips against dark nipples. The touch of his tongue against the omega’s skin?

There was no need to imagine now. He took to worshiping John with all the ease of a man who had been thinking about the many ways he could do so for years. He kneaded his hands along the small of Johns back until he had a handful of John’s warm posterior. He sucked and licked and explored honeyed skin to his heart's content. It was new, and different, so different than he had ever expected. It was John that was a surprise, for all Sherlock's deductions he'd never expected this; an open willing partner with little to no reservations for the sudden new turn they had taken.

John was just as eager to explore, his hands seeking out Sherlock’s skin, his lips tasting along Sherlock’s collarbone and across his pectorals. Murmuring his approval he sought out Sherlock’s sex, and Sherlock hissed as hands wrapped around his cock, and dragged down the length of him in a slow burn, his grip light like he was very much aware of the lack of lubricant. John moaned in his ear, fingers tracing the tip of Sherlock's head, exploring the length of him with slow strokes and impatient fingers. Sherlock's breath hitched at the feel of flesh on his most intimate parts. He found himself muttering under his breath, whispered words of endearment and need. 

They moved and touched and explored each other with eager touches and skilled hand until both of them were panting and gasping for more. Until the former army captain was left an unthinking mess under his hands, moaning and keening for more, exactly how Sherlock wanted him.

Spreading the swell of John’s thighs he settled onto his belly and took his omega into his mouth, growling his approval as John thrust upwards and sought out the warm heat of Sherlock’s mouth eagerly. The omega fit beautifully in his throat as he swallowed him down to the base, working his lips and tongue around the steel core of the other man.

“Holy! Sherlock!” John choked in surprise, hips hitching as Sherlock forced them to still. He tasted of soap and clean, warm skin; the hairs at the base of his cock tickled Sherlock’s nose. His hand twisted in Sherlock’s hair and alternated between tugs and slow caresses as he moaned out terms of endearment and appreciation that devolved quickly into curses and then nothing but heady gasps and sobbing breaths. His leg was slung over Sherlock’s shoulder, anchoring him to Sherlock.

The heel of his foot dug into the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder blades when Sherlock slid the swell of his thumb into the entrance of John’s channel.

“Oh fuck, yes Sherlock, please.” John's head kicked back against the pillows, voice desperate as slick pooled from within him, welcoming the intrusion with ease. Sherlock let off of John’s cock with a lurid pop, turning his head to bite at the swell of John’s thigh, taking the skin into his mouth with a slow suckle even as he introduced another digit to John’s tight body. Wet, tight heat enveloped his fingers eagerly as he twisted and worked them in and out in slow thrusts. John arched into his ministrations, his belly tense rolling with each shift of his hips. 

“Tell me when your ready John.” Sherlock purred as he adjusted fingers in the blond until he was rubbing that sweet spot that had John shouting and tensing beneath him. Thinking critically he set to spreading John with a third finger, until the omega was open, wet, and eager.

“Nnnn…” John seemed to be beyond words, his mouth a red slash of panting, hot breaths, chest heaving and eyes closed as he relished the moment. A blush of pink pooled on the tan expanse of his chest, tinging it a lovely shade. Sherlock chuckled the sound dark and warm as John’s finger set to tugging him upwards, pulling at his hair, and then his ears and neck until he was level with John’s head again. He went willingly, pale eyes glinting brightly. “If you don’t get inside of me right now, I swear, I will strangle you.” John managed to vocalize after a moment of catching his breath, his throat no doubt dry from crying out. Sherlock reached for the bottle of brandy on the nightstand on offered it to John, humming his approval as the omega took a moment to swallow down a gulp, lips pursing against the burn. His eyes were sex drunk without the additional alcohol and hazy with need.

He could get used to this. John, bare, and undone, and so damn beautiful.

“Come ‘ere.” The bottle barely made it back onto the nightstand before John was pulling him close again, wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s thin waist and using his significant muscles to yank Sherlock close. Sherlock dropped to his knees, hands bracketed on either side of John's neck; and pressed his forehead to John’s, looking into endless blue eyes. John blinked, pale lashes touching his cheeks, before his eyes opened, starring back up into Sherlock's eyes, searching for something. "Damn, you are so fucking gorgeous." Sherlock chuckled, his breath catching as he used his already slick dampened fingers to drag down his own cock, coating it with John’s slick before he lined his aching sex up with John’s entrance and pressed passed the first rim of muscle. The omega beneath him rocked, heels digging into his hip bones and urging him forward.

John enveloped him with slick warmth, and they moaned in tandem as Sherlock eased inside with one slow thrust. John took him in with a welcoming flood of slick and twitching muscles. Sherlock watched John’s pupils blow wide with pleasure, felt the hitch of his breath as he bottomed out deep inside the omega. Sherlock’s own breath stuttered in his lungs and he closed his eyes, rocking his forehead against John’s as he paused and just _felt._ Warm sweetness surrounded him, tight and eagerly sucking at his length with twitches of muscle.

“Bloody hell….” John groaned in a rush as Sherlock filled him, his fingers spasmed where they clutched around the swell of Sherlock’s biceps, his voice breaking. Sherlock smiled, a lopsided sloppy thing, and just focused on giving John a moment to adjust, forcing back the need to pull out and thrust in harder. Opening his eyes he examined the lines and planes of John’s face, the blond didn’t seem to be in pain, Sherlock had taken care to properly prepare him. “You are _definitely_ an alpha.” John panted, biting his lower lip, the muscles of his neck distended as he dug his head back into the pillow. Sherlock snorted, he was well aware of his secondary gender.

“Of course I am.”

John rolled his eyes, laughing and slapping at Sherlock’s shoulder. “Don’t be daft.”

“I’m never-” Sherlock choaked as John shifted his hips beneath him, attempting to get comfortable. “-daft.” John just rolled his eyes, then moaned as he found a more comfortable position, spreading his legs wider to accommodate for Sherlock’s size and tilting his hips upwards. One leg shifted to hook over Sherlock’s shoulder again in a fascinating display of flexibility. Sherlock groaned his own approval as the new position eased him in deeper. His hands settled one on John’s hips the other on his leg, to keep him supported where he wanted to be.

Rocking his hips John was the first to start them in that age-old rhythm, using Sherlock’s arms as leverage, until Sherlock joined in, meeting him thrust for thrust. He slid out to the tip, then pistoned his hips forward, deep into John with a sharp thrust. The new position had John welcoming him more eagerly. Sherlock dragged fingers down warm skin, biting them against John’s hips and gripping tight as he picked up the pace, thrusting into John with slow deep drives of his cock. Slick spilled from within the omega, staining the sheets and filling the air with the heady scent of John. 

They chased their combined pleasure higher and higher until John was groaning beneath him, one arm clenched into the swells of pillows above his head, abs a taut line of muscle as his other hand worked up and down his own shaft chasing that final release. Sherlock bowed his head between their bodies, watched the slide and peak of John’s hand as he worked his hand just the way he liked it. The head of his cock peaked from within John’s grasp, reddened and eager, and no doubt aching to the touch.

John came with a sharp cry against Sherlock’s ear, seed spilling across his own belly, with it his scent exploding into vibrant hues. Sherlock watched the whole thing from hooded eyes, growling out his approval with animalistic ferocity.

“That’s it love, come for me.” He hissed, turning his head so his teeth bit into the swell of John’s thigh where it slung over his shoulder, one hand gripped the blonds thigh and opening the omega up wide for every thrust of his cock into the smaller male. John took it eagerly, cursing through his orgasm with energetic creativity. The clenching of John’s inner muscles around him as the omega came was more than enough to send Sherlock over the edge. It only took a few more thrusts and pleasure flared bright and hot behind his eyes, making his body tense and still most of its fevered movements. Grabbing John’s hips he ground down into John’s channel and had the presence of mind to open his eyes in time to watch John take his knot as he spilled his seed deep inside.

John’s eyes widened and the crook of his arm squeezed tight around Sherlock’s forearm as he shifted back and away from the sudden swelling. “Shhh love, easy.” Sherlock gasped out, pressing kisses over John’s love bitten thigh. Watching as John's features twisted with discomfort for a moment before going lax with ecstasy as the second wave of his orgasm hit, easing the way for Sherlock’s knot. Sherlock panted through that aching spasm of muscles, moaning along with John as they road through the pleasured spasms of John’s channel. It was gentler this time, no seed spilling from the omega, just biology attempting to insure procreation as omega muscles clamped down around alpha knot.

It was all primal instinct, age-old base animal need. Omega males were notoriously infertile, with the chance of procreation less than one percent in unbonded males. Even a happy, healthy omega, in their prime, and bonded to an alpha, would have trouble becoming with child. Omega biology was quite fascinating, they'd evolved to bare children, only for there own anatomy to betray them and make it impossible to do so.

John crumbled to the sheets, his eyes closed, chest heaving. Sherlock couldn’t help but look down at the other man, watching the way he wound down from climax with drowsy shifts of his muscles and a slow arch of his back that tugged at where they were connected.

“Christ Sherlock, lie down and stop looking at me like that,” John growled, opening one eye to glower up at Sherlock’s features.

“Look at you like what?” Sherlock questioned, not bothering to feel offended, instead just following John’s orders and, dropping down to wrap himself around the omega in a warm tangle of limbs.

“Like I’m one of your experiments or something. What part of my anatomy are you thinking 'bout right now?” John mumbled drowsily, humming happily and nuzzling into Sherlock’s neck, his legs and arms doing a good job of helping Sherlock tangle them together.

“I was just thinking about the scientific data on male omega reproductive systems,” Sherlock admitted against the shell of John’s ear. John groaned, one hand slapping against the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock flinched, even though the touch was light enough, and scowled, he ducked his face into the scoop of John’s neck to get away from John’s teasing.

“Jesus, thanks for reminding a man about his dry ovaries, and right after mind-blowing, life-altering sex too. That brain of yours never rests,” John chuckled, he didn’t seem to be upset, more just playful, and maybe a little bit amazed. Turning his head the omega pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, the gesture letting Sherlock know that John wasn’t offended. It felt butterfly light against Sherlock’s skin. His finger’s carded through Sherlock’s hair, dragging through tangled black locks.

Sherlock closed his eyes, relishing the moment. A moment he honestly had never thought he would get to have. “To be honest, I am surprised we just did that,” Sherlock admitted, running his hand through John’s sweat-dampened locks in return. His fingers shook in the aftermath of their coming together, uncertainty coming back now that the heat of the moment had passed. What had they just done? Would it last, could they make this new thing work? Change was terrifying, what's more, neither of them was very good at it. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen John buy something new at the grocery, it was always the same staples, picked with exacting precision. He himself struggled even to go into a new restaurant, and they had the same five takeout menu’s for the last four years. Unchanging. Maybe unchangeable?

This was very much outside of their normal comfort zone.

John dragged in a harsh breath, and Sherlock felt the omega’s lungs tense up with suppressed emotions, was he thinking the same thing?

“Yeah…yeah, we did good, huh?” John question, his cheeks staining a bright red. Reading between the lines Sherlock took that to mean something along the lines of: _You don’t regret it?_ Sherlock chuckled in relief as he realized that John had the same fears of inadequacy and rejection he had.

This would work, it had to, he needed John more than any case than any other person.

“Yes, darling, I think so.” Pressing a kiss to John’s lips he shifted up to his elbows disconnecting from the other man enough to put some space between them. Stroking the soft skin of John’s belly he could feel the slowly deflating swell of his knot. “Are you uncomfortable?”

John sighed drowsily, adjusting the pillow under his head into a more comfortable. “A little late for that Sher, but no, not really, feels good, full,” John admitted, voice dropping into a contented purr. Sherlock growled low in his throat at that, rocking his hips in a slow grind into the hot grasp of John’s channel. They both moan out loud as John’s channel tightened, milking around Sherlock’s cock with eager pulls of muscle. John’s fingers clutch around his biceps as he whimpers through the aftershocks. They both relish the shared moment, breathing in eachother's bodies in heady gasps.

It takes another little bit for his knot to come down enough to disengage. Dragging a hand down the to press on the warm muscles of John’s belly he gently released them from each other. Both of them are oversensitive and hiss in unison at the aching pleasure of disconnection.

John wrinkled his nose as their combined fluid’s spilled free and that blush on his chest turned even brighter. The smell of _them_ hazed the air, warm and wet and right. “God, I hate that part, get us a washcloth would you?” John pleaded, face blushing vivid red before he hid his face with his arm. Sherlock wanted to protest, he rather liked the sight of his omega painted in his fluids but decided to save John from further embarrassment and just do as he was told, scrambling from the bed on legs that felt something like jelly from lack of blood flow. 

Stepping out into the hall he felt John’s eyes lingering on his bare backside as he headed to the linen closet and snatched up a couple of washcloths. He warmed one with heated water from the tap, glancing up into the mirror as he worked. His face was lit with a happy content smile, all that earlier fear chased away. This was good, more than good.

“So what brought all this on Mister Holmes?” John called from the other room, voice drowsy and thoughtful.

Sherlock blinked, turning away from the mirror and heading back to the room with feet that slapped lightly against the wood floor. “I met your twin today.” He admitted as he stepped back into the room and handed the square of cloth over to John.

“Oh yeah? Should I remind you I only have a sister?” John raised his eyebrow incredulously, his voice warm and playful. He was so different from August, features open and pain-free. The smile on the edges of his lips faded at the sad look in Sherlock’s eyes. “Bad than?” The omega questioned, reaching out and taking Sherlock’s hand in his own, squeezing Sherlock's fingers in a show of concern.

Sherlock winced as John’s fingers brushed over the jagged bite mark on his hand, he looked down just as John caught sight of the injury. “What’s this? Did someone bite you?!” Sherlock eyed the reddened, infected looking skin, brow furrowing. Up until this moment he had completely forgotten about it.

“Your twin, actually.”

John gave him a looked, “You decided to- doing all this- because someone who looks like me bit you?”

Sherlock sighed, he really did not want to explain to John about his day. He did not think he could handle reopening such fresh memories. Looking away he shook his head. “No, not that specifically, I don’t particularly want to talk about it.” He admitted, choosing instead to drop down on the bed and attempt to cozy up to John’s side. “It would dampen the mood considerably.”

John sat up next to him, reaching for his hand once more, any of his own discomfort forgotten. “Well, at least let me disinfect this,” His lips pursed, eyes examining the wound with a practiced physician’s eye. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything as John slid out the bed. When the other man put on his doctor's face there was no getting through to him. He was already out the door before Sherlock had a chance to protest. The tables were turned as Sherlock got a peek at sticky, love bitten thighs. John wore the marks of his fingerprints on his hips with elegance. Sherlock eyed those marks, a smirk lighting up his eyes.

He didn’t hear John take the stairs up to his room, the other man seemed to know all the weak spots on the steps and always avoided them. He did hear the upstairs door creak open, and quite rummaging. John returned holding a first aid kit, tossing it at Sherlock with a careless movement that still somehow showed off how easy it was for him to aim the thing.

Sherlock caught it out of the air with a soft grunt. It was new, they went through them far more often than most people, given their day jobs. He used his nails to work at the tape as John swiped the washcloth from the bed. Sherlock scowled down at the box. His mood dampened considerably at the thought of the other man washing away all the traces of their coming together. He tried to force down those baser instincts, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“Won’t you leave it John?” He questioned, keeping his eyes on the box as he broke it free of the packaging. He couldn’t bring himself to explain how it made him want to growl, watching John remove the traces _them_. John paused in what he was doing, and Sherlock was certain that if he looked up he’d see the other man eyeing him with one brow raised, mouth twisted in a classic expression of contemplation.

“Ah…” The sound slipped out past John’s soft lips, a deep hum of understanding.“I forget how you alpha’s are sometimes.” John admitted, dropping the cloth to the table. Sherlock felt the bed dip and sighed as John kneeled beside him, wrapping strong arms around his shoulders and dragging Sherlock in for a tight embrace against his bare chest. Sherlock felt and heard the gently smack of lips as they pressed to the top of his curls. He smiled against the swell of Johns bicep, “You like that you’ve thoroughly debauched me, don’t you?” John purred, his voice turning dark and sultry. “Smelling of nothing but sex and you.”

Sherlock turned his head up, neck extending to brush his lips against John’s chin. “Not just me, us.” He explained against the stubble of John’s chin, taking the moment to breathe in their combined scent on John’s neck. John sighed, turning his head down to press a return kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

“What a romantic you are. If only Mycroft knew.”

Sherlock choked, jerking his head back to scowl at the omega, with disdainful eyes. “Do try not to bring my brother in the bedroom. But yes, I’m sure the very idea would confound him.” John laughed, deep in his belly.

Sherlock chuckled in return, shaking his mussed hair from his eyes before returning to the first aid kit. He handed John a set of antimicrobials and some bandages, scowling when the other man but those aside in favor of the bottle of astringent and a glove. “Oh I hate this part,” Sherlock admitted, holding his hand out despite his protests.

The spill of alcohol against the broken, inflamed skin had Sherlock jerking away. “Dammit John, careful!” Sherlock snarled, baring his fangs in distaste. John’s lips lifted in response, showing off smaller fangs, not giving in to the dominance display in the least. Sherlock wanted to tongue at the barely-there canine’s, lick at the hard protrusions with his soft tongue. Instead he watched deft, latex covered fingers dab and squeeze and manipulate the folds of broken skin, baring through the ache until John seemed confident in a job well done. The omega ignored Sherlock’s protests, tutting under his breath as he slapped on some antibiotic cream and taped the whole lot up.

“You’re definitely going to need a jab for that, it’s already pretty infected. Maybe stop by Bart’s tomorrow, Mike should be around.” John muttered absently, snapping his glove off.

“Ta.” Sherlock yanked his hand free from the other man’s grasp. “Now come here, I have other things I want you to touch.” Reaching out with his good hand he wrapped it around John’s neck and yanked the other man onto his lap. John laughed loud and clear as he followed Sherlock’s demands and threw one leg over Sherlock’s hips so he straddled the alpha.

“Again?! You’re going to run me to the ground you beast.”

Sherlock grinned, wide and carefree, his heart pounded with aching love for the man above him. _I love this man, I love him._ He kept those words in tight to his chest though, there was plenty of time for them to explore this thing they had just started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nini's Rambles:  
> This one took me a bit, why, you ask? Because it's over twice as long as all of my other chapters, oh my jesus! I hope you enjoyed the extra treat! I just couldn't think of a way to split it up!
> 
> Yay for Sherlock finally getting up the nerve to make John his! Omg for the sex scene. I think that, for as confident as he seems, John is probably shrieking giddy girl screams in his head when Sherlock mauls him. Thus the bit of alcoholic fortification. He needs it to calm those nerves.  
> Isn’t Sherlock adorably poetic? Everything he thinks is for John and about John. He’s so internalized that I think writing some of these scenes from John’s perspective might have made him seem cold because he’s one heavy thinker. I don’t want him to be cold, inside Sherlock is a fire, he just doesn’t quite know how to express it out loud. John is probably one of the few who can see that deep, who gets exactly what’s going on in Sherlock’s thick skull.
> 
> Not so many gifs in this one, it's a little difficult to actually find ones that suit the scene! Sometimes they fit in so easily, others not so much.  
> Sorry, my little beans!
> 
> Comments and kudo's so I survive until next chapter!


	9. Cigarettes and Mildew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an adorable little one shot for Good Omen's that I put up a few days ago, check it out (no zombies, yes mpreg, and childbirth)  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/24177130

_Sherlock_

_February 25_ _ th _ _\- 3 Months 8 Days Ago_

_Docks_

It is raining. Damp, icy drops falling from the sky in large dribbles that obscured the wooden planks of the dock and have the sky above blending into the River Thames below. The air is winter cold and the skin on his arms tense with goosebumps from it. Combined together it was all rather hideously dreadful, and had Sherlock feeling like a bedraggled alley cat. He scowled down at the docks below him, a dark figure camouflage against a large pylon beam. There is a high degree of certainty that the men below haven’t seen him, if only because they have their hands full at the moment. A line of fifteen men and women, take up most of Eddington’s men's attention. The rain helps too, most plebeians tend to ignore their surroundings when faced with physical discomfort.

He can see the difference between captors and captives just by the way they move. The captors are rough and aggressive, shoving and pushing, shouting indistinct orders to each other from across the way. Whereas the captives exhibit symptoms of illness and pain, swaying in line, no visible fight in them. The rain obscures their scents, but Sherlock imagines that if he was able to get closer he’d catch that same whiff of rot and decay that he’d smelled on August the day before. He has already concluded that they will lack the scent of their secondary gender, just like August had.

His head is starting to ache, a slow-building feverish pain that makes him wish for a cup of tea and a nice warm fire. He pushed aside the discomfort in favor of the case. There would time later to deal with an encroaching cold when people weren’t being taken off the street and used for medical experimentation.

Looking down at the moving figures below Sherlock found it a bit surprising that the lot of them were out in such force. Not once in his months of research had he actually found Eddington or his men in action. Were they getting more confident? There was evidence to point in that direction. First, there had been August, left behind in their haste to close up shop. Now, this? He considers it might be a matter of pressure. Pressure by him, pressure by Mycroft. Eddington is getting edgy, he is acting under duress and becoming sloppy in his attempts to cover his tracks.

Sherlock hopes so, he wanted this case to end, and soon. He’d been drawn from a warm bed and a very receptive, open John that morning. There was no denying he had places he would rather be at the moment. Sherlock felt a slow smile build upon his lips and ducked his head at the memory of their shared moments the night before. He chuckled under his breath as he thought of John, eager, and warm, and oh so pleased with himself by the end of it all.

“I get to say I caught Sherlock fuckin’ Holmes, course I’m happy as a clam.” John had chortled through grinning lips as he settled into bed, spent, and languid from enjoying Sherlock’s body. While Sherlock couldn’t agree on the imagery he did fully agreed in the essence of it. Happy as a clam indeed.

Now he was as wet as a clam too. _Annoying._

Below he watched Eddington’s men direct their captives into an awaiting van. Which was...at odds with what he knew up to this felt. His brow furrowed in confusion as he looked between the dock and the van. Up to this point he and Mycroft had assumed that the captives where being transferred from the London area, evacuated out as Eddington closed up shop and moved to a different city. Presumably one with lower standards for human treatment and health practices. This was different, why were they bringing _in_ people? Puzzling over the conundrum he made his way down the pier, his cab was waiting around the corner, the cabby number 73823, telling him that is was the same alpha he’d paid a ride from earlier. He’d bribed the man an extra fifty euro’s to stick around and be discrete, with the promise of more if he was there when he came back.

Cigarette smoke lingered in the interior of the cab as he hopped in the back, commandeering it to follow the van with a sharp command. He breathed shallowly in an attempt to distract himself from the familiar smell. The cabby hardly notice. He was a large set man with a receding hairline and sweaty demeanor, and better yet seemed indifferent to what might have been considered rather shady commands. Grunting his agreement he pulled out and followed after Eddington’s men. Sherlock was pleased enough when the alpha proved to follow at a discrete distance, seemingly slightly more observant than the standard driver. _Good, I do so appreciate discretion when it comes to these_ things.

Reaching into the pocket of his coat he pulled out his slightly damp phone. The bandage on his hand impeded the move only slightly, and he lifted it up to eye it in the light with the vague sort of annoyance of a man who was used to dealing with injures. He'd need to remember to stop by Bart's later, John had been rather adamant about that much. Turning back to his phone it was instinct to flip through the various screens, finally reaching Mycroft’s number.

> _Sherlock 2/25 8:13 - I’ve located the dropoff point, further investigation required._
> 
> _•• MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED - NO SERVICE••_

Sherlock scowled at the phone as the message appeared. Cellphone service was spotty at best in these areas, but nothing could be done about it until he got back within tower range. Looking up from the screen he examined where they were heading. The rain-laden streets were becoming distinctly more low income. Up ahead the van’s brake lights flashed, Sherlock watched, intrigued as the van turned left. The cabby followed behind, inconspicuous in the rain.

When they pulled up to what appeared to be an old run-down warehouse Sherlock grew intrigued. This was a much larger setting than he’d known Eddington to have up until now. It showed his operation had grown to a much higher degree. He didn’t need to hide in waterlogged residential buildings and rundown commercial units any longer, that much was obvious.

“Stop here,” Sherlock commanded, watching as the van pulled onto the road ahead and turned to the left, disappearing around the corner. The brakes on the cab squeaked and Sherlock glowered at the necessity of having to pay the man himself, instead of just jumping out. John usually did the paying. Without saying anything further he tossed a couple of notes at the man over the partition and stepped out into the rain dashed road.

Mud squelched under his boots as he paused to eye the monolithic brick building in front of him. He faced the back end, so there was no knowing, as of yet, what the front looked like. From the location he could see it was wrapped by a corroded chain-link fence, which seemed to be in place to stop the general public from getting to close. The buildings on either side were also vacant, looming in a protective square around the lot. He’d give it a five-star rating as far as villainous headquarters went, even the light seemed dimmer here, the clouds rolling to cover the sky in zealous swaths.

 _How ominous._ Sherlock thought, a thrill of excitement making the hairs on his neck stand up. He did so love the chase. Overhead lightning zinged across the sky, thunder crashed, ringing in Sherlock’s ears. The rain picked up, sleeting out of the sky in heavy droughts. Through the sudden onslaught Sherlock completely missed the sound of the cab door opening behind him. He only became aware of the other alpha’s presence when the man stepped up next to him. Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes and turning to face the alpha with a raised brow.

“Yes?” He questioned, tone bored and laden with annoyance. His head hurt and he had no patience for curious onlookers.

“You forgot something.” The man explained in a nasally voice, holding “something” out in his hand, the object itself obscured by the rain.

Sherlock patted his side for his cellphone and felt the bulk of it in his pocket. “I find that unlikely.” Sherlock scowled, taking a step back, eyes narrowing with suspicion. The man’s scent was masked in the falling rain, even his features hazed by the drops that clung to Sherlock’s lashes. Making Sherlock’s skills of deduction hindered by the weather.

When the man struck Sherlock didn’t get the chance to react. One moment the rotund man was standing quietly, still holding out that "something" in his hand. The next, faster than any man if his size should be capable of, he shifted forward into Sherlock’s space, his hand coming up and slamming something hard against the pale column of Sherlock's throat. Sherlock choked at the familiar feeling of a needle piercing the flesh of his carotid artery, followed by the icy cold song of unfamiliar chemicals whipping into his bloodstream.

He moved to jerk away from the other man, clutching a hand to his neck and stumbling back several steps in the mud. For a moment he considered fighting or running, or maybe a little of both, but he nixed those ideas as useless wastes of energy. He’d taken a direct hit to one of his main arteries. The chances of him making it more than a block were minimal at best. He had a high tolerance for these sorts of things, something brought on by personal experimentation and a drug addiction that was unhindered by standards. All that was useless until the worst of the side-effects wore off; he’d be as useful as a milk-fed kitten. Besides, there was so much more to gain by staying right here.

His eyes flickered between the heavy man and the cab then down to the syringe (it had to be a syringe) in his hand. Piece’s of the puzzle began to fall into place, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Ah, so that’s how you do it.” He mused, straightening to examine the alpha with new eyes. Tall, yet unassuming, blends into the background, a job that no one would question or look into. Much like the cabby in the case John had so aptly titled “A Study in Pink”, this man was someone who could be anywhere at any time and not be questioned.

“You’re the one who’s been taking my people off the streets. The one supplying Eddington with his fodder for experiments.” Sherlock stated, not bothering to question, the pieces fit in too well together. “Ah,” Sherlock looked around over the derelict landscape, an even larger epiphany hitting home, “That would make all of this a setup than.”

The cabby mock bowed. “That’d be about right. Ain’t you scared?” He questioned, his American accent standing out in the London backdrop. He was grinning, a slow gleeful thing filled with malice. Oh, this one thrived on the fear, craved it, a sadist than.

Sherlock snorted, not in the mood to please, “Oh hardly, I find it all rather dull. In fact, I’m having a bit of daja vu, I swear I’ve worked a case like this before.”

Sherlock swayed in place, the edges of his vision were darkening and it was getting difficult to stay upright. “If I recall correctly, and I do, the last man who did something similar ended up with a bullet in the heart.” The scowl on the other alpha’s face was quiet worth the punch to his chin that occurred a moment later. Sherlock grunted as a ham sized fist greeted his face, sending pain blazing into his skull and stars glittering in his eyes. He went with the hit, reducing the injury just by letting his body move backward with the blow, a trick learned from years of being bullied before he’d learned to protect himself.

It does hurt though, tremendously, and it’s probably best not to let himself linger too long with the other alpha. _Best get on with it, more secrets to unwind._ His thoughts lose their sharpness, but he’s aware enough to know there is no further information he can glean from this man. He’s just the delivery driver.

Sherlock falls to his knees, the drop to the ground sufficiently dramatic, in his own opinion. The drugs add a bit of realism, making his limbs uncoordinated and floppy. He falls forward onto his front, rainwater eagerly meeting his face as it greets the mud. It’s a move made more out of necessity than anything since he cannot be certain if the cabby will attempt to continue the beating, and would like to protect his face and internal organs from further damage. The cold feels good on the quickly inflaming skin of his chin and even better on his fevered brow.

He actually does fade away for a bit after that, the tranquilizer sending him on a hazy ride not unlike some of the drug-induced trips he’s taken before. When awareness slithers back in he’s being dragged, hands wrapped tightly around his torso and pinching under his armpits, each step has his back and shoulders protesting. The heels of his shoes scraped against concrete, and the rain was blessedly absent.

The sound of moans and cries had his mind struggling back from its drug-addled haze. The scent even more so, an overwhelming smog of fear and death mixed with malaise and infection. He struggled to open his eyes, squinting through the slits of his eyelids to get his bearings. He was being dragged through a narrow corridor, on either side of him were large glass…tanks? Sherlock blinked, attempting to get his eyes to focus, the flop of his curled hair hiding his questing eyes from view.

Yes, tanks. Rows and rows of cubicles like glass tanks. Each one held a plethora of medical equipment, sensors, and monitors, IV stands, and white sheets. White sheets stained with viscous blood and putrid yellow. From his angle he could barely see the draped shapes of people underneath the fabric, strapped down and immobile. In one particular cubicle a young woman sat, curled up face-first into the corner of her tank, her arms and hands immobilized in the twisted confines of a straight jacket. She moaned into the crook of it, pressing her blister pinched face into the glass. Sherlock stared in fascinated horror as her cheeks split, revealing everything from omega fangs to gleaming white molars in a macabre smile. Blood pooled from the now open wound, dark and thick like a two-day-old cadaver's.

“Fascinating, isn’t she?” Dark pressed trousers stepped into Sherlock’s line of sight, blocking his view of the women. For a moment Sherlock is certain he has been caught, “What do you think of our progress so far Jacob?” But no, the man was speaking to Sherlock’s captor. Jacob, a name to put to the face of the treacherous cabby.

Against the back of his head Jacob's voice rumbles. “ Ain't that interesting sir." Jacob sounds a little green around the gills, maybe he only likes pain when he's the only one causing it. "You’re doing gods work.”

 _Gods work?_ Sherlock truly doubted that.

“Well, yes, baby steps. This is further progress than we have had in years. August Walker, he’s one of your acquisitions if you recall, is by far our closest success story thus far. He has minimal symptoms after secondary gender Sterilization, with only late onset of the virus itself. An unfortunate byproduct, but one my scientists are working to eliminate.”

 _Secondary Gender Sterilization._ The words ring in his head, pounding like a dumbbell on his sinuses as he thinks of poor young August, with his none existent scent and the rancid odor of decay on his skin. That's what they were doing? Trying to remove secondary genders from existence entirely? Why? Alpha's, beta, and omega's were a meaningless subgenre of human existence, serving no real purpose but that of procreation. Even then, omega's were naturally falling to the wayside, their own evolutionary traits inhibiting their ability to reproduce, the same went for females and males. Without omegas the alphas would follow shortly after. It was evolution, it might take centuries, but it _would_ happen. What was the point of eliminating an entire subset now, unless the goal was to make everyone equal, everyone the same on some base level?

“He has been transferred to the new sight. We will be closing up shop here soon as well.” The man’s words would indicate he was in some form of power, despite the fact his men are hiding August's escape from him. This was either a peon of Eddington’s or possibly even Eddington himself. By scent alone he matched their intel. He is a beta, his scent dull tones of mildew and rotting damp things, an unfortunate combination. _Perhaps_ _he just stinks and doesn't want to have to deal with other people smelling his ineptitude for the rest of his life._ It's a rather pithy concept, but wouldn't be the most surprising motivation Sherlock has over heard of. And the man does smell something awful. Most beta's have a calming, half present scent, not this man. It's _a_ motivation, if not _the_ motivation. Sherlock cursed his luck at not being in the position to get a good look, he would have liked to know the face of his enemy. _The day isn't done,_ He soothed his curiosity, if only for the moment.

Inside his mind Sherlock is pleased, puzzle pieces were slipping into place one after another, showing pieces of the whole. Mycroft and he had been struggling to find out what exactly Eddington’s long term goals were. Why was he taking people? What experiments could possibly warrant this level of secrecy and why would he not be using all the legal channels that his money and power offered him? This was a treasure trove compared to what they'd known yesterday. He needed to get out of here soon and let Mycroft now everything he had just discovered. Until then the best he could do is listen.

“This young lady is a close second in terms of success, current state aside she managed to last against the virus for three months without full loss of self. We are pushing the boundaries of science Jacob. Oh - but forgive me, I’m passionate about our goals. I see you have your hands full - Is this who I think it is?”

Sherlock felt hands drag through the tangled, wet locks of his hair, and had the presence of mind to close his eyes fully, letting his jaw sag in a spot-on imitation of drug-induced lethargy. His head is yanked up, hair pulling painfully from the weight of it. He could feel the other man’s eyes on his face, examining him with a critical eye.

“Ah yes, Mycroft Holmes’ dearest little brother.” Sherlock held back a snort at that, _Dear indeed._ “This will make our work much simpler if we can get that buffoon off our back. Take him to my office, and leave him with my guards, we have need for you on the field.” Sherlock’s hair is released and he let his head flop down on pendulum of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nini's Rambles: Here we have another Sherlock chapter. This one's a bit of a filler, but it does need to be here, I need to clarify some of the background plot that he's been dealing with. We learn some important things during this chapter. I'm thinking there is going to be at least one more Sherlock chapter, than we get back to dear old John and how he's doing. For now we get to see how Sherlock hands this sort of situation.
> 
> Take Note:  
> \- That damn cabby is a jerk and has screwed over both our boys, someone should think about running him over  
> \- We find out Eddington's goals: removing the A/B/O genders  
> -And we know how the virus started
> 
> As always comments and kudos are appreciated.


	10. Lavender and Almond Bitter

_Sherlock_

_February 25th_ _\- 3 Months 8 Days Ago_

_Abandoned warehouse_

Sherlock scowled at the bare concrete floor as he was dragged bodily across it, a slight grin playing across his cheeks as the cabby, Jason, huffed and puffed his way down the hall. Sherlock was no lightweight, despite his thin frame, and we were taller than the alpha by at least six inches. It made him unwieldy, and he was just petty enough to be pleased about it. When Jason finally made it to the office, there was a bit off a scuffle as he struggled with the doorknob, until he finally managed to get the door open with a well-placed kick.

Sherlock had a brief moment to get a peek at his new prison before he had to close his eyes. It was enough of a glimpse to take note of the two betas that were to be his guards, as well as the general layout of this new location. A desk took up the bulk of the space, littered haphazardly with pens and papers and other tools of the desk trade. It was an expensive monstrosity, that would probably take a team of four to move. Whoever the owner was, they were showing off their status. 

Facing the desk was an equally hulking mass of an armchair. A man sat slumped in the recesses of it. The only indication of what he looked like was a peak of red hair followed by a glimpse of a phone in his palm. Across from him stood the other beta, pacing the space between desk and chair with a general air of boredom. He was a greying, hardened fellow with his hands in his pockets and a disinterested expression that said he was used to seeing more action than this. The disgusted look, he cast Jason's way as the other man burst into the room was intriguing.

"Brody," A shuffle of acknowledgment from the couch. "Colt," A nod from the man standing by the desk. "I got something from the boss for you guys to watch." The alpha announced, seemingly unaware of the look cast his way.

"Put 'em in the corner." Came Colt's put upon response from in front of the desk, the man's voice gravelly and smoke hardened.

More dragging ensued, followed by a sharp pain as Sherlock's tailbone hit the hard ground. Jason's grunts and groans hid the sound of his pained, hissing, intake of breath. Beefy hands shoved and pushed him into a semi-upright position, until his back settled into the hardened nook, coat scrapping against the brick wall. He made sure to lull his head forward and hide his face behind rain-sodden locks.

"I'll just dose him up again, and be on my way." The glee in Jason's voice would have been disturbing to everyday people; Sherlock found it intriguing. Sadists were always so fascinating.

Sherlock bit back his disappointment at that time was limited, and he didn't want to waste it, dragging himself back up through the shroud of another drug-induced haze. The roots of his hair throbbed as a ham-hard fist twisted into them so he could jerk his head to the side, exposing the long column of his neck for the needle. He felt it prick the skin, and it was through sheer force of will that he didn't yank the thing free and stab it into dear Jason's eyeball.

The sound of leather creaking alerted him to one of the beta's movements.

"Nah, don't bother, boss will want him awake for the phone call," Brody interjected, followed by the low beta scent of lavender and shea butter as he moved in to look over Sherlock's prone form. "Right, Colt?"

A nonverbal grunt of approval was the only acknowledgment Colt gave, the sound rattling in his throat. The feel of the needle receding from his skin was a relief, and he dropped his head forward again as his hair was released.

"Right, well, he's got maybe an hour than before this one wears off." Came Jason's disappointed response. There was the sound of receding footsteps, followed by the door closing.

The smell of lavender grew stronger as the younger of the two beta's moved in close, kicking at his shoe.

"This him? Doesn't look too tough to me." Brody chuckled, sizing up his foot to Sherlock's oxfords. "Nice shoes though, think the boss will let me have them?"

Colt grunted a sound of disgust; the feeling seemed to encompass most of his coworkers. "Come off it, have a little bit of class." Came the response. "'Sides, he's not supposed to be tough, he's supposed to be smart." There came the sound of leather creaking followed by the drop of an arse onto a soft cushion. That seemed to grab Bordy's attention letting off of his shoe.

"Hey, I was sitting there!" Brody growsed.

"Not anymore." Sherlock felt inordinately pleased for Brody to have lost his seat, and he was growing to like this Colt chap, baddy or not he had some standards.

"How smart can he be if Jacob took a one-up on him, hmm?" There was the sound of his phone vibrating, followed by the tap-tap of fingers flying on glass. Sherlock opened his eyes enough to peak and watch as Brody strolled away from him. Shoved into the corner behind the desk as he was, he could no longer see the armchair over the bulk of it, so Colt was an unknown. Brody was standing though, his red hair standing out against the backdrop of dark grey brick. His back faced Sherlock as he chatted with Colt.

"I wouldn't underestimate him." Colt groused. Smart man.

"Still was caught, and now boss man's going to extort that brother of his. Just wait and see! We'll be living it free in a week, none of this back alley bullshit." Brody took that moment to clear a space on the desk, shoving papers and pens aside. Sherlock closed his eyes before the other man noticed him watching, he heard the sound of papers rustling and a few odds and ends being disturbed. There was the distinct noise of something falling on the floor, followed by the sound of metal rolling against concrete.

Sherlock peaked his eyes open again in time to see Brody hitch himself up onto the desk and sit on it. The sound of his boots on expensive oak had Sherlock's head pounding. Squinting his eyes against the ache, he turned his attention to what had fallen on the floor. There were a few leaves of paper and a business card of some type. They held little importance, though. His eyes lit on an expensive-looking pen that had fallen on the floor, now that could be useful. It was one of those ugly statement pieces, something owned to hoist one's status to others. Mycroft had one just like it, entitled prat that he was.

With slow, careful movements, he inched his hand outward. He needn't have worried, Colt couldn't see him, and Brody was already absorbed in his phone once more. The cool metal touched his skin, and he used is middle and forefinger to grasp the hard contours of it, dragging it back until he could palm the metal. Real gold, to heavy for aluminum, the weight of it significant despite its size.

Slipping it up his sleeve, he was satisfied with the acquisition. It was an unusual weapon, but a weapon none the less. If John were there, he would volunteer a high statistical probability that both betas would end up dead in less than five minutes with said weapon. John was like that, ruthless and aggressive. Sherlock found it strikingly sexy. The fact that John could choose to put together or take apart a man in minutes was just…perfection.

His chances alone were closer to 50/50 at the moment, though if either one of them had a gun, he'd say it was much lower. With that in mind, there was nothing to do but wait and hope for a moment of action.

Settling in for the long haul, he was left with nothing but the annoying mutterings of Eddington's wayward buffoons and his thoughts. Worry laid itself heavy in his chest. Especially now, when his stillness took away any distractions, reminding him of his body's every ache and pain.

The bite pulsated on his right hand with the beat of his heart and the pounding of his headache, keeping time to the beat of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Infected? He was beginning to think so. His brow felt fevered, his muscles ached. The headache could be blamed on the tranquilizer, but the rest was all much too convenient given the bite on his hand and the circumstance he currently found himself in. 

The bandage John had applied was already peeling off, hanging only by one strand of surgical tape, exposing the reddened and torn skin of his hand, and the distinct outline of teeth standing out on the surface. Peering from under half-closed lids, he considered that bit of flesh, examined it with concern. There were no visible sores, no puss, or scent of atrophy. His sharp nose would catch even the first scents of rot.

His mind drew up detailed visions of the poor omega woman, overlaying them with young August. Symptoms had been similar: deranged action, sores, and pus, the blue veins at the neck and wrists. His lips felt fine, his hand and wrists unmarred by thickened veins. He certainly did not feel anymore crazed than usual. August had been bitey. He was an alpha, so the urge did tend to hit every once and a while, but it was no stronger than usual.

Other than a fever and general aches, he was symptom-free up to this moment. Without the knowledge he'd just gained, he might have just chalked it up to a cold. Perhaps John had cleared out the wound enough to prevent further infection? That would depend on the virus's strength, which brought him to his next concern.

John.

John, who had cleansed the wound, who had held his hand unprotected, and kissed him, and so much more. Their exchange of bodily fluids had been rather significant, from what he could recall of the night before, which was all of it. Sherlock shuddered, closing his eyes. _If I infected him…_ The thought was too atrocious to consider; the vision of August's face twisted with illness to similar to John's for comfort. _He's fine! He wore gloves; he was careful._ Sherlock reassured himself, pushing that thought from his head before it overwhelmed him. He couldn't let his mind turn to such dark thoughts, not and stay functional enough to get free. He needed to get this over with so he could…well. His options were limited. First, he would need to be tested; Mycroft could help him there. All of these were troubles for the future. Lock them up and focused on the _now_.

Putting his concerns behind a door in his Mind Palace, he set to getting his drug-addled body back into working order. Slow, careful movement were essential. He started with isometric clenching and relaxing of muscles until the fibrous tissue worked free the drug, and his muscles began to feel fully functional. His arms and legs awoke from their forced stasis, coming alive with pinpricks and the feeling of ants crawling on skin. A quick assessment had him feeling a limited amount of confidence. The blow to the face had rattled his jaw, and his right hand would be almost useless in its current condition, the ligaments to swollen with infection. He could work with that.

"I'm gonna get a tea, want anything?" Colt questioned after an indeterminate amount of time filled only with the sound of Brody's phone beeping.

"Yeah, get me a cup."

Sherlock tensed, his heartbeat eagerly racing with anticipation. This was his chance, possibly the only opportunity he had to get to get away. He waited for the sound of the door clicking closed, followed by that annoying beeping and the vibrations of Brody playing with his phone.

Sherlock was up and moving before the other man could react. The pen found it's way into the soft flesh at the base of Brody's chin with a sharp upward thrust of the barrel. Sherlock could see it pierce the roof of his mouth through the open maw of his lips, the bloodstained barrel piercing tongue, and soft pallet before the younger man had a chance to react. Brody gurgled in surprise, eyes widening and hands scrambling at Sherlock's wet coat in an attempt to break free. It lasted only for a moment, before he lost consciousness, his eyes rolling back into his head. Quick, efficient, nonlethal.

The door opened up behind him.

"I forgot to ask how you like it- HOLY SHIT!"

"Fuck!" Sherlock reached for his pen, yanking it from the base of Brody's throat and shoving him to the side with an arc of glistening red blood. The move sent Brody's body falling to the side. There was the sharp sound of a gunshot, and the man's head exploded in a shower of brain matter that blasted onto the ceiling and walls and across Sherlock's front.

 _Guns._ That reduced his chances astronomically.

"Fuck! Brody!" Colt's cursing showed he'd intended for that to be a warning shot. The now-deceased Brody had just gotten in the way.

Quick change of plan. Sherlock saw the glint of a gun at Brody's side and yanked it from his holster with deft fingers, spinning to face Colt and only barely managing to stay on his feet through a wave of vertigo. Colt's scowling features met his own, his gun leveled at Sherlock.

"That was stupid." Colt snapped, jerking his head towards Brody's slumped body. His eyes held a glint of consideration and a small amount of respect as he looked over Sherlock with an appraising eye. "I did tell him not to let his guard down. Idiot." They chuckled in unison, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Indeed," Sherlock admitted, considering his options. The gun was a sweaty, unfamiliar weight in his palm. He wasn't like John. He didn't even know how to turn off the safety, his finger seeking and not finding the familiar button where it would be if it had been John's gun.

Colt watched him with smart brown eyes, "Do you even know where the safety is on that thing?" He questioned, the smirk on his face knowing, as he repeated Sherlock's thoughts aloud. "Put it down before you get yourself shot."

Sherlock scowled, eyes turning to Colt's gun, same make, some look. From this angle, he could see the safety, simple enough. His finger moving for the button was punctuated by Colt's soft put upon sigh.

"Right."

_Bang! Bang!_

The sound of Colt's gun going off was followed by red hot pain shooting up his leg. Sherlock's leg buckled, and he cried out as bone crumbled from the blast, his femur and tibia going down in that order as first one, then the other met with relentless steel flying at high velocity.

Colt was all business, kicking the gun from Sherlock's hand before taking hold of his hair and yanking him backward and away from the desk by the strands. His head hit the concrete with a resounding thump, and he groaned as the movement dragged his injured leg out from under him. He groaned as the world spun for a moment, vertigo.

"Told you to drop the gun, you dunce." Colt almost sounded regretful as he yanked the cushion off the couch and used it to elevate Sherlock's injured leg. This close the scent of almond bitters was heady and strong in the air. Sherlock couldn't tell if it was his typical smell, or if it was stronger thanks to the stress of the moment.

"Can't blame a man for trying." Sherlock choked through clenched teeth, the tendons of his neck distended from the pain as he struggled not to scream. His leg was on fire, two matching points of pain that radiated through bone and muscle tissue.

Gun still trained on his prone figure Colt walked to the door and opened it. "Need a medic. Get Eddington in here!" He yelled with sharp clarity down the hall, projecting his voice with impeccable strength. Sherlock laughed, because he'd finally get to see Eddington's face, and for all purposes had no way of getting the information back to Mycroft. 

Oh, he was going into shock. He could feel it.

"Is your boss going to be mad you shot a hostage?" He questioned, his voice sounded far away and distant through the ringing in his ears. He shivered, pressing both hands to the hole in his upper leg in hopes of staunching the bleeding.

"Oh, he's practical enough. An eye for an eye and such." Colt snorted, pausing to examine the prone body of his ex-partner. No love lost then, the only regrets he had seemed to be over the fact that he'd accidentally shot him.

Colt paused above him, scowling for a moment before pulling out his phone and snapping a photo. The flash blared through Sherlock's retinas, and he groaned, moving his right hand to cover his eyes just as another flash split the room. 

Blinking through tearing eyes, he caught the sound of hard-soled shoes coming from outside, followed by a man and an elderly looking woman. The man, Eddington, he would assume, was still wearing those dark blue trousers from earlier. He took in the scene with a grim sort of detachment, his eyes only pausing for a moment on Brody's disfigured form.

"Had a spot of trouble, boss," Colt admitted from his position by Sherlock. There was another flash, and then the older man was turning his phone screen for Eddington to examine.

"Will one of those work?" Colt asked.

The medic ignored them, settling by his side and snapping on a set of gloves before she went to packing the wounds on his legs. Sherlock kept his face covered with one hand filtering the painful light through his fingers.

Eddington browsed through the photos. "Eh…looks a bit morbid with all the blood and such, but that'll do for a ransom shot." He declared. "You have Mycroft's number, I assume?"

"Of course. I'll send it to him. He won't be pleased."

"Ta, that's a good man. Now then- wait, what is that on his hand?"

"Oh, shite." Colt jolted upright, blood-smeared hands moving, so he held them out in front of him.

"That looks like a bite mark." Eddington took three steps back, his voice rising in alarm. The medic ignored them. She was probably intimately familiar with dealing with this virus. "How'd he get bit?" He asked Colt, the question seeming to be rhetorical since a moment later he was turning back to Sherlock, "Holmes? How did you get bit?"

Sherlock felt the giggles coming on again, his voice rising into a manic laugh. "Found your boy August." He admitted, scrubbing his aching hand down his aching face. Ugh, he was a mess.

"The fuck? When did August go missing?" Eddington questioned, his ugly scent turning even more rancid with his anger. "Tabitha, look at his damn eyes, is he showing any symptoms?"

Tabitha stopped what she was doing to roll her eyes. "If you don't want him dead, it's probably best I finish the leg first." She snapped.

"He'll be getting a shot in the head if he's infected, so best get on with it," Colt ordered from his place by the medic's bag, his hands dripping with hand-sanitizer.

Sherlock groaned. This was surreal. He felt like he'd been duped by a bunch of idiots with grandiose plans. Tabitha pulled his hand from where it covered his face, examining the bite wound on the back of it before turning it over to see his wrist."

"How long?"

"Oh, a day or so." Sherlock moaned out. Why was he answering her questions? Was he the idiot, ugh, he was the idiot, wasn't he? Driven to stupidity by fever and a couple of gunshot wounds. _Oh, how I've fallen._

"You coughing up blood, seeing spots, any violent thoughts?"

"Blood no. Spots yes, though only just now. Violent thoughts…well, I just killed a man. Actually, he killed him," Sherlock gestured to Colt even as he internally berated himself, such an idiot.

"Hey, I can't take all the credit. You assisted." Such a modest fellow, this Colt, he had to hold back a laugh or risk appearing even madder.

"Also, fever and chills, if you must know. And, a couple of bullets to the leg, could that be a symptom?" Tabitha was unenthused by his wit, her rheumy eyes glowering down at him. She was so career-oriented he couldn't even scent what her secondary designation would be, and she smelled of nothing but nitrile gloves, vitamins, and antiseptic.

"Well, he's been exposed, but shows none of the standard symptoms." She admitted, turning his head this way and that, examining his neck and ears and forcing his mouth open with a tongue depressor. "At this stage, he should be feral already. He's a second-gen infection, and they don't last long compared to the first set." She explained, tossing her gloves and the stick in a biohazard baggy before snatching up the hand sanitizer and applying it liberally. Another set of gloves slipped on to her wrinkled fingers like a second skin. When she straightened her spine to glower up at the two of them, it was a thing of beauty.

"What are you saying, Tabitha." Greg Eddington snapped.

"I'm saying you can put a bullet between his eyes if you like, but it'd be a right waste if this boy ended up being our first case of immunity to the virus." She snapped.

"Man, adult man." Sherlock corrected her, relief flooding his mind and making the room foggy. Not infected, immune, right, that was, good, very good. Wasn't it? What the hell was wrong with his brain, oh god, could a virus make you stupid? Either way, none of the symptoms she had listed had sounded at all pleasant, so yes, good.

"I'm old. Everyone's a boy to me." Tabitha snapped, slapping her gloved hand against Sherlock's injured leg. Sherlock shouted at the searing nerve pain.

"Christ woman, take care. What happened to that damn oath you lot follow, do no harm!?" Sherlock squawked. Colt snickered from his place somewhere to the left of Tabitha's bag.

For his part, Eddington was starring at Sherlock with all of the consideration a butcher gave a cow. "Interesting that…changes our plans." Crouching down beside Tabitha, he seemed to consider his options. Close as he was, he had pruny black eyes the same color as his hair. "Right, take him to the lab, Tabitha, I want him examined, I want to know him down to his very DNA."

"Surgeon first, both bones are fractured, he'll need extensive surgery. He's in shock too. We'll have our work cut out for us." Tabitha amended, her tone brooking no disagreement.

"Very well, do what you must. Colt, gather the men, we're closing up shop here. Time to move to our permanent location."

Colt grunted, a man of many words. Sherlock didn't have the energy to think about these new developments, on being a guinea pig, or a lab result, or the fact that he was currently a hostage. Instead, he was fading rapidly into the shock Tabitha had been speaking of.

What in the world had he gotten himself in to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nini's Rambles:  
> Forgot the gifs dangit! They're added, sorry about that!  
> Ugh, it took a whole day to edit this thing. My mind is molasses. 
> 
> But, oh how the plot thickens! I promised dear Sherlock wouldn't become a zombie, and now we know why!  
> Poor Sherlock isn't feeling very well right about now. I've also introduced a few new characters. I really like Colt! He's fun to write, straight to the point, and kinda awesome. I got some strong COVID vibes while writing this. Colt's reaction to finding out Sherlock might be infected is the same as mine every time someone comes near me in the store.
> 
> Comment me, kudo me, love me people!


	11. Perspiration and Bleach

_ John _

_ Present _

To say that John Watson was pissed was possibly the understatement of the century. Pissed did not come close to describing the level of anger he was feeling at the moment. He was livid, heart-throbbing, mind-numbing livid. His hand ached for the stock of a gun in its grip, a knife would do at this point. He had neither, and therefore had to get inventive. Sherlock would love it, this was him thinking on his feet.

Literally.

The rubber of his trainers met the glass of the cab's rear window with a thump and a shout. The cabby in the front seat shouted in response, sending the car swerving in his haste to see what John was doing. John ignored his cries to stop, he was safe from the idiot now, separated as they were by the glass partition. Cabby was yelling obscenities now, slamming his fist against the barrier in an attempt to distraction John. 

John laughed, the sound somewhere between maniacal and desperate holding no real mirth. He was twisted around in the seat, back pressed up against the drivers side seat and hands gripping the cushion under his arse for leverage. His trainers squealed against the tempered glass, having made no dent so far. John wasn't deterred.

Through the glass he could see glimpses of the street. There was a rocking bump as they rolled into some kind of underground car-park, he glanced at it only in passing. He'd long ago stopped trying to track where they were. Somewhere outside of London proper, location and landmarks unknown. 

Instead, he focused on his task. Havoc was the end goal here, with a secondary objective of killing the cabby. He should have shot the man the moment he'd felt that bite of a needle in his neck. Civilian life had made him soft, to damn lenient, and look where he'd landed himself.

It would not happen again, lesson learned. 

The sound of glass cracking was so immensely satisfying that John couldn't help but snarl in appreciation. He watched the crack spider outward and the pressure of his shoes. The car came to a stop, engine shutting down, and he half paid attention to the sound of the driver side door opening and closing. 

"Let…me…out!" He shouted, his small fangs bared over thin lips. Each word punctuated with a slam of his feet to the tempered glass of the cab's back window. Grunting, his lungs strained as he pushed and shoved until the seal on the window squealed in protest and began to shift. 

"Fucking Christ! When'd the tranq wear off?" Came a rasped call from outside. Even at his angle John could see people dashing about moving to surround the cab.

"Fuck all should I know, he's been trying to break down the doors for half the ride!" Came the response, and John grinned, his lips raised in a feral snarl, viscous and proud. 

"Next time I get my hands on you, you're gonna be a fuckin' dead, cabby!" He shouted, breathlessly, the sound turning triumphant as his foot broke through the glass, sending bits of it flying outward. He ignored the scrap of glass on his exposed ankle, just like he was ignoring the ache of his throat, and the splinters burrowed in his back, through sheer tenacious force of will. 

Two more well-placed kicks had a hole the size of his shoulders. That let in some fresh air at least, and he inhaled it with greedy gasps. He was going a bit sour at the edges, and the car was starting to reek thanks to it. All that running did a number on his antiperspirant.

"Bloody hell, did you abduct the terminator?" 

"Shut up, Colt! Help me get him out." 

"Hey now, did you see what he did to Jermaine? You want to go near him with that gun, you go for it."

"He's just an omega for Christ's sake!"

"And you're an alpha, but that split lip and the blood on the back of your head says he was able to take you down. Back off, Jason."

John kept one ear out, ignoring the men for now as he twisted out of his curled position, digging his hands into the glass until he found a piece big enough to act as a weapon. It took some work and some bloodied fingers, but he managed to break it down into a usable weapon. That would do. 

"Hey! John Watson?" Came a gruff shout from outside the vehicle, punctuated by the rap of a gun on the window glass. 

John scowled, turning his head towards the sound in time to see a dark tan hand grasping a gun as it backed off the window. "You're surrounded, no place to go. This can be hard, or it can be easy. How 'bout you come on out?" The man requested.

Scowling, John peered through the window. He was right. The blurry forms of a half dozen men and women surrounded the vehicle. Some were holding batons, others he could see the heavy glint of metal in their hands. Guns. Wonderful. 

There was the loud sound of the automatic locks popping up, the click echoing through the car. Heaving a sigh of regret, John forced himself to crawl over glass littered, leather cushions, and pull on the car door handle. 

He crawled from the vehicle with a huff, getting both his legs under him and using the handle for support for only a moment. His stomach fluttered aggressively, and he pressed a palm to the odd sensation, breathing in slow, calming breaths. Damn ulcer.

He ignored the guards as they circled him in, keeping far enough back to stay out of striking distance but also eliminating all avenues of escape. He had to look a savage, covered in multiple people's blood, banged up and drugged, and did he mention pissed? The shard of glass on his hand glinted red from his own blood, and he glowered at his captors, deep blue eyes flickering between each one before he landed on the man that seemed to be their leader.

"You are?" He questioned, ignoring the appraising tawny eyes. He had more important things to do, like turn to glare down that bloody cabby where he stood, just a few steps beyond the protective circle created by the guards. John was petty enough to feel a zing of pleasure when the alpha shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

"Remi Colt. You, Mr. Watson, look like shite, I'd shake your hand, but you'd probably stab me." Remi mused in his gravelly voice that held a small amount of admiration as he drew John's attention away from the cabby and towards him. John eyed the tall, middle eastern chap with a discerning eye. Something in his bearing shouted military training. His gun was trained on John, an unwavering threat. One wrong move and the man would shoot, John had no doubt. John could respect that, for the moment, and he was smart enough to see he was outgunned. John heaved a sigh of disappointment. Another time then. His stomach seemed to agree, fluttering in commiseration. 

Remi looked to be waiting for him to come to that conclusion, his keen eyes taking in John's every move. "Come on, Fire Ant, I have places to go." Remi urged, jerking his head towards some distant door. 

John followed his gesture with his eyes, taking in his current location. They were in the underground car park, as he'd expected. A couple dozen vehicles and a scattering of equipment taking up only a small amount of the large tarmac. 

"Where am I?" Remi snorted but didn't offer an answer, waving for his men to move ahead as he moved to take John's flank. John could practically feel the sight of his gun on his back. He ignored him in favor of keeping an eye on Jason, the cabby, hoping the cocksucker would get in close enough to put the piece of glass in his hands to good use. The fact he hadn't been disarmed yet was a bit of a surprise, but he'd take it.

"Hey, don't even think about it, drop that." Came Remi's voice from behind his back, and John felt his face go stormy.  _ Jinxed it, damn. _ He thought bitterly as he let the glass fall without complaint. He had six guns on him, chances of actually getting to the plump cabby had been minimal anyway.

He was led to a lift, and that's where things got complicated. No one wanted to take a ride with a military man who had proven himself more than capable of disarming and killing two of their gang. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Wallace, cuff him. Let's get this over with." Remi ordered. John grimaced as his aching arm was yanked behind his back. 

"Careful," he snarled. "Gunshot." 

There was a pause, "New or old?" Remi asked, tone clinical, like he was considering if John would start to bleed out on the elevator ride up.

"Old." He was surprised when the young women with the cuffs moved more carefully, looping the handcuffs around his wrists before cinching them in tight. Criminals with manners, how very British. Then again, from this angle, he could tell young Wallace was an alpha, maybe she couldn't resist her instincts when around an omega.

From there, he was shoved into the elevator, pressed face-first into the corner of it with hands and arms braced so he couldn't even twitch without someone noticing. The press of so many bodies had his instincts on edge. He breathed shallow breaths through his mouth in an attempt at calm, closing his eyes and pressing his head into the cool metal of the lift. 

"What time is it?" He questioned, his breath disgustingly warm against his face, cornered as it was.

"Twenty past five." Came Remi's response. John nodded sighing. A whole day wasted, it hadn't even been noon when he'd been abducted. The last time he'd made contact with Mycroft was hours ago. How long had he been out? The even bigger question was, where had he been taken? The countryside they'd been driving through when he'd finally come to had been nondescript and generic. After that, he'd been a little busy trying to get free from the moving vehicle to even notice.

The lift dinged, and John was escorted out with a sharp shove to the shoulder-blades. They enter a modern looking building, nothing like the run-down, ruined apartment complexes and warehouses these people had previously been occupying. Whistling under his breath, he took in the clean tiles and yellow lighting. There was no smell of death, just astringent and the lingering odor of bleach

"You guys have upgraded." He said, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Remi. The tall beta shrugged, his gun still trained on John. Men and women in lab coats pause what they are doing and make room for John's escort, glancing at him briefly before turning their eyes to look the other way. That had John recalling what Mycroft had said about medical experimentation. 

The office they drop him off in is nothing but modern white edges and polished marble. The desk was marble, the laptop on top of it is worth more than John made in a month t Bert's. At least the chair they cuffed him to is comfy enough, still warm from its previous occupant, and it reclined, the leather cupped his aching limps cradling him in relative comfort. John isn't above taking a nap, he's slept through worse, and god was he tired, tired and starving. His stomach is eager for food, reminding him that he'd only been able to get down a couple biscuits that morning and had practically run a marathon for the rest of his day. 

John's escort lined the walls around him, Remi taking up position a safe distance from his elbow, his gun aimed at the floor, safety still off. Their eyes met for a moment, dark blue to warm tawny. He seems indifferent to John, and really everyone. Ignoring the whispers of his crew in favor of silence.

John slumped into the deep recline of the chair, ignoring them all to finally catch his breath. He had no idea where he was and was surrounded by enemies. The best thing he could do was store his energy and plot. He didn't like it, he was more of a take action kind of man. Sherlock would be proud. 

There was the sound of keys at the door, and then it swung open, welcoming in a pompous looking fellow in a slick cut suit. He brought with him a whiff of odor that was a bit unfortunate for a beta. "Here you are, Colt, finally brought in our man, I see." 

Remi grunted, inclining his head in agreement. 

A voluptuous young woman followed after, moving over to the laptop and opening it with assured hands. Her fingers flashed as she activated the screen, tossing blonde hair over her shoulder, before pulling up a program. 

"Ready when you are, Sir Eddington," She called, her gum popping in her mouth before she took a step over to the wall, winking at one of the guards as she setted in next to him with a sashay of wide hips.

"Right." Turning to John, Sir Eddington (if that was his actual name, what a prig) examined him. "Should we clean him up a bit?"

"Nah, he looks nice and roughed up," Remi interjected. John snorted, dropping his head against the chair back and rolling his eyes.

"You're probably right." Eddington nodded his head, leaning on the top of the marble desk. He was sitting just to the right of the laptop and facing John. "I'm going to make a phone call, and in a moment, you'll see the face of your mate," Eddington explained, crossing his arms in an attempt to look imposing. 

John jolted, sitting upright, Sherlock? His heart kicked into a stutter of surprise, his lips pursing as he stared at the screen. He wouldn't call his and Sherlock's relationship 'mated' quite yet, but could see where some might think differently, "Yeah?"

"When you see him, I want you to tell him to call off his dogs. No mo re searching, no more spying or disrupting my work in any way, or I cut off your pretty…well," Eddington seemed to consider his wording. "…stubby fingers." 

John felt his brow furrow, confused. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

Remi shifted beside him. "There's no point denying it. The omega you shot today, Dohmer, he saw you two kissing two days ago." He explained. "And you've been helping him look for his brother." He reminded.

That…cleared things up. These men thought he was Mycroft's mate? What a clusterfuck. They had really gone after him in the off chance hopes that he was someone important enough to Mycroft to be worthy of blackmailing him. 

He couldn't think of a point when they had been kissing. Could they be referring to that moment Mycroft had been comforting him in the warehouse? When John had discovered that horrible blood scene of Sherlock's capture? It seemed like it. They hadn't been kissing, but he supposed that from a distance, their positions had looked rather intimate. 

"Oh. I….see." John spoke slowly, trying to keep his disbelief out of his voice. 

Could this really be all because of Mycroft? Usually Sherlock was the one dragging them into trouble.  


"Don't look so surprised, if he'd just listened to us the first time and stopped hunting for his brother, none of this would have happened." Eddington scoffed, adjusting the pinch of his vest over the curve of his belly. "Everything was going perfectly until he decided to start his investigations again. I would have thought kidnapping his brother had been enough to stop him." He drawled, raising an eyebrow at Remi as if looking for confirmation.

"I hate my brother, maybe he's the same." Remi drawled, shrugging. "I'd throw him to the bears for a couple hundred pounds."

Eddington chortled. "How dark, Colt! I knew there was a reason I liked you. No loyalty to anything but money." 

"Besides, Sherlock's a cock. Picky fucker. Should have seen him bitching at breakfast this morning," Remi grunted, scrapping a thumb over his stubbled chin.

John stopped listening, his ears ringing with the sound of Sherlock's name. It was the first he'd heard of someone coming into direct contact with the wayward detective.  _ Sherlock is here?!  _ John's fingers clenched around the aluminum arms of the chair, knuckles tightening with surprise. Sherlock was somewhere in this building, alive and well enough to complain about breakfast of all things. Sherlock was being used to blackmail Mycroft.

His stomach did that fluttering twisting thing again, and he glared down at it,  _ Get your shite together John. _

Wait, Mycroft was being blackmailed?

He hadn't even mentioned anything of the sort, had never brought up that he'd been in contact with Sherlock's captors. Why?

John stared down at his scraped and stained khakis, blinking back tears of relief, or maybe anger. What else had the other man been keeping from him? Where was Sherlock? Too many questions.

"Oh good, we've got him crying." Eddington grinned, bending to peer into John's eyes. John leaned back in his chair, turning his head down and blinking furiously to rid himself of the tears. "Remember, no more searching or off with the fingers!" Eddington reminded cheerfully, reaching out to press the spacebar on the computer. 

The screen flashed black, the sound of ringing drawing from its speakers. It rang twice before the other end picked up. Mycroft's grim features appearing on the screen.

"John." Mycroft's eyes examined him, looking over the bruises and scrapes, no doubt. His nostrils flared, eyes flashing with suppressed emotion. His face was a welcome sight, just the sight of it soothing to John's raging omega senses.  


"Love, I seem to be in a bit of a situation," John responded, glancing up at Eddington and hoping Mycroft smart brain caught on. He was not sure what in him felt the need to keep the charade going. All he knew was that the only reason he was alive at the moment was that they believed he meant something to Mycroft. Without that, they could put a bullet in his head, and he'd never see Sherlock or Mycroft again. Mycroft's eyes narrowed for a moment at the term of endearment, and John was probably the only one to catch the slight widening of his eyes as he caught on before they went dark and calculating. 

"I can see that, dearest." Mycroft murmured, leaning back in his chair and putting his chin to steepled fingers. The endearment was false, though he pulled it off very well; the anger in his features was genuine. "And do they have a message for me?" 

John thought fast, his time with Mycroft was limited, he needed to let the other man know as much as he possibly could. His eyes flickering between Eddington, Remi, and his entourage of guards. He lingered over each one, licking his lips to give Mycroft time to follow. Ten total. "I'm more curious about why you didn't tell me you were being blackmailed? That would have been good to know, don't you think?" John questioned his voice dark with repressed emotion. 

The eldest Holmes nodded, the movement barely perceptible, "I was trying to keep you safe." Mycroft explained slowly. Good, he was playing along.

John snorted, "Fat chance of that, look at me, Mycroft! Do you have any idea what I've been through today? Now I'm stuck at some sort of fucking medical facility in the middle of nowher-" Remi moved with lightening fast purpose, the palm of his hand striking and whipping John's head to the side. John grunted as pain lit up across his cheek.

Mycroft shouted on the other side of the line in protest. John growled, shaking his head to try to get past the stars blinding his vision. Baring bloodied teeth, he kept his head ducked and out of the way of further blows. The little slip of information had been worth it, anything to give Mycroft some hints to their location. 

"Keep to what we discussed." Remi reprimanded him.

"Fine." Spitting blood out in the general direction of the beta's shoe's John glared back up at the screen, taking in Mycroft's livid face. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen the other man so pissed before. The emotion looked right on him, somehow.

"I'm to inform you that you stop your investigation, or I start losing fingers," John explained, his voice muffled as he tongued at the split in his lip where his fang had broken skin. "I'm not interested in losing fingers, Mycroft." John glanced up at Remi to make sure he wouldn't get hit for that, turning to wipe his mouth on the swell of one shoulder as his blood spilled free down his chin.

"No, I do appreciate you with all your digits, my dear." That one made John blush just a bit, this was odd, Mycroft being nice was so damn unnerving. Mycroft using endearments on him, even more confusing, and soothing, oddly. John watched as he tapped his fingers to his chin, glancing at Remi's ominous form in the corner of the screen; the guard's figure was cropped in such a way that he was nothing but a beige pinstripe suit with a gun. "And my brother?" He questioned, eye's looking up in the direction of Remi's head.

Remi gave Eddington a look where he sat on the corner of the desk, one dark brow raising in question. Eddington waved him on, watching the feed with open interest.

"As long as you cooperate, your brother and lover are safe with us," Remi explained, his deep voice almost sounded bored. 

Mycroft did not look bored, Mycroft looked like he wanted to raise hell. His eyes lingered on John's face, taking in each abrasion and injury. His lips were so tense they were nothing but a thin line of disdain.

"Right, I'm thinking of you, John. Be careful with yourself. Say hello to Sherlock for me." Mycroft commanded, and John closed his eyes, nodding his head and taking a deep breath. There was genuine concern on Mycroft's voice. Even so, he caught that message loud and clear. Mycroft wouldn't give up on looking for them, but it would be up to John and Sherlock to protect themselves if he got caught doing so. "And John?" 

"Yeah." John straightened his spine, the weight in Mycroft's voice urging him to pay attention

"Take care of the  _ both  _ of you. Don't strain yourself." John furrowed his brow, of course he'd take care of Sherlock, didn't he always? 

The laptop clicked closed under Eddington's well-manicured fingers, cutting off whatever else Mycroft had in mind to say. "Fantastic! Take him down to the cells. Away from the general population if you would. A dead hostage is a useless hostage!" Eddington hopped off the desktop, straightening his suit and glancing over his people. His eyes lit on the woman from earlier.

"Come, Mandy, we have things to do."

She nodded her head in agreement, snatching up the laptop and heading out after her boss.

Remi waited until the door closed behind them before taking John by his short locks and turning his aching cheek into the light. "You're a fucking idiot, you know that?" He hissed, open admiration in his voice. Surprisingly enough, he didn't sound pissed, or even remotely concerned about the information John had slipped. "Come on, I'll get you an ice-pack once you're settled in." He added, his voice low enough so the other guards couldn't hear as he bent to undo the cuffs. John raised an eyebrow, what game was this man playing?

He was so damn confused right now. 

God, this would be so much easier with Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nini's Rambles: It's up! I took a bit to do some work on other stories, so apologies for the delays!
> 
> Take note:  
> -Baby has decided to make their presence known, John is a dense dunderhead though. Poor man  
> -John finally finds out that Mycroft's been keeping some secrets from him  
> -Mycroft seems to know a bit more about baby's existence than he's been letting on.
> 
> I forgot to leave gifs in the last chapter. They've been added!
> 
> And as always comments and kudo's are much appreciated!


	12. Earl Grey and Lemongrass

_ Mycroft Holmes _

_ Present _

For the second time in under a month, Mycroft was alert to someone being at his door by the hard bang of a fist on wood. Rolling his eyes, he made his way over to his front door and peered through the peephole. Detective Lestrade stood at his doorstep, a fine scowl marring his alpha features. Mycroft was nonplussed, but opened the door anyway, letting the alpha in with a put upon sigh before he could draw too much attention to himself.

"I thought I told you to stay out of this Lestrade," Mycroft questioned, turning and heading back to his study, assuming the other man would follow after.

"Yeah, well, that was before I knew all the facts Mycroft. Christ, do you have any idea what happened in that alley?" Lestrade looked less than put together, his normally prestine suit wrinkled and stained. His face was marred with the scruffy starts of stubbled. All of which made him look worried and deeply concerned. As he should be, John had ingratiated himself into Sherlock's life hand and foot, he was the other half to the dynamic duo, and news of his disappearance was painful.  


Mycroft settled into his chair, turning in its leather confines so he could cast a disparaging eye at the Detective. "I was under the impression that is what I sent you there for?"

"Maybe, but we have absolute bollocks to go by." The Detective explained, waving the thin file he held in his hand. "Evidence aplenty, no doubt about that, but I need to know the whole story Mycroft. That alley had John's blood in it, his sick and a gun that has the damn serial number scraped off. Fingerprints indicate it belonged to some thug from Hackney before John got his hands on it. Do you want me to bet those fingerprint match that second body you took off the scene?" As he spoke, Lestrade handed over the file, and tossed out scene photos, pointing to each to emphasize his point.

"Oh, and the coup de grace? A fucking futuristic needle thing, with illegal knock out drugs in it. This is big. Whatever this is. This I need to know about."

Mycroft sighed, tapping his finger on the top of his desk and considering Lestrade's words. Did he really want to risk bringing the other man into this? The dangers were very real, but it was in the man's job description. "Very well… allow me to explain."

They settled in as Mycroft finally allowed himself to describe the details of what he knew. Lestrade was alarmed, but he had already jumped to some of the same conclusions. He did not like that people were being stolen for medical experimentation right under his nose, but put it aside in favor of trying to solve the puzzle.

In the end, they agreed that the most significant clue came in the form of that tranquilizer needle. The piece of equipment was not new to Mycroft. Examining the picture proved that much. It was commonly used in the realms of espionage, though not on street level crimes. Which explained Lestrade's lack of knowledge on the matter. It delivered not only a high dose of tranquilizer but also a tracking chip into the body. That had probably been the way Edgington's men had been able to keep track of John through his wild final flight. 

Mycroft was sure that if he could only just figure out that chip, he could find John's location. Lestrade was of the same opinion.

"This just shouts modus operandi, by the way," Lestrade explained around a biscuit. "This is how they're getting these men and women off the streets. Whoever this cabby is, he has to be one of their traffickers. They can't have more than a couple like him, people would notice. One or two? That's different." Mycroft nodded his head in agreement, waving for Lestrade to go on. "They're getting these people alone in the cab and knocking them out when given an opportunity. If they escape, the tracking device leads them right to the victim. It's why you haven't heard of anyone getting free and reporting them. They probably have other means as well, an operation this big wouldn't be able to thrive without other sources, but this, this is our way in."

On his desk, Mycroft's laptop flashed an incoming video call. He tensed visibly, eyes narrowing in on the blinking light. The Detective quickly took a step back and waved Mycroft to answer. Mycroft was not surprised to see John's face on the other side of the screen when he answered the line. The omega looked like hell warmed over. By the time the call ended, Mycroft was fuming, the room heavy and oppressive with his anger. Lestrade was just as pissed. He'd listened intently to the call, taking notes on his small notepad, but his hand had shaken with emotion.  


Once the screen went black, Mycroft groaned, staring at his laptop for a long moment before pulling it closed. "Did you get all that?" He questioned, glancing over the top of it to meet Lestrade's eyes. The Detective was grim, his features set in an angry line. 

"I'll admit it's not that surprising." Greg sighed over the rim of his mug, earl grey steaming his cheeks red. "You said Eddington liked his blackmail. He probably thought your interest in Sherlock dropped and decided to get another hostage. How'd they decide you two were lovers?" He asked, coming around to lean on Mycroft's desk. Mycroft shrugged, rubbing his brow with long fingers.

"It had to have been that damn omega that John shot. He caught us in a precarious position the other day at that abandoned lot I told you about."

"What?!" Lestrade's voice rose in alarm. "Mycroft, he's Sherlock's omega. Even if he's claimed you…" Gregory scolded, the reprimand in his voice sharp.

Mycroft waved off the self-righteous anger, shaking his head. "Not like that you arse, he was having an Omega Drop. I had to do something to stop it." He resented the implication. He was well aware of his brother's claim to John, what's more, the very idea of having sex with anyone, much less John, had his stomach raising. "I was just comforting him, and would you stop it with the claiming nonsense?!"

Gregory rolled his eyes, though he seemed relieved that there hadn't been any fraternizing between Mycroft and John. Reaching out, he brushed hand to Mycroft's shoulder, a gesture no doubt intended to comfort. It was annoying at best. "You're scent has changed. He's definitely claimed you as his beta—nothing to be ashamed of. John's a good match. Otherwise, the claim wouldn't have worked in the first place." 

Mycroft groaned. "I know how bonding works, Gregory." In all honesty, he could not help but feel prideful of being needed and trusted enough for an omega to bond him. It was what every beta strived for, the acceptance and link of a bond, both alpha, and omega. He went against the grain in most things, and until now had never even thought about bonding an omega, much less one as strong as John. It felt right, John understood him to a degree. Well, as much as one could understand a Holmes, and they made a decent team, in some respects.

He would have preferred for Sherlock's and John's bond to have been established first, but luck had not been on their side.

"I imagine he's been under a lot of stress, though, to establish a new bond like that. He must have needed the extra support." Gregory mused, fiddling with the cover of his notebook as he read over his notes.

"Yes, being with child does that to an omega." Mycroft mused, starring down at the closed laptop. The shocking burst of lemongrass that hit his nose spoke to Lestrade's surprise. Mycroft sighed, he had not intended to say that aloud.

"Oh, fuck."

"I wholeheartedly agree," Mycroft admitted, looking up to meet the other man's eyes. "You'll understand why I wanted to keep him out of this?"

"How long?"

"Time frame would indicate he's close to three and a half, maybe four months along. Anthea noticed the change in his scent less than a month ago. It's subtle -unless someone were aware of his natural scent- it might not even be noticeable. If that was not enough, he has become a bit skittish and territorial, his sense of smell is heightened, and emotions as well. The morning sickness is the worst, I have done my best to get him to eat, but he's finicky. Ginger Digestives seem to have done the trick thus far."

He'd been pleased to discover that much, it had been worth the trip to the store and the enlightening discussion he'd had with a heavily pregnant woman in the biscuit aisle. The beta in him had practically glowed at being able to provide for an omega, even if John had not been bonded him at the time. 

The look on the inspector's face was openly surprised, and Mycroft smiled, grim and tight. "What? Are you are astounded I would notice such things?"

"It's just nice to see you're not a complete arse, is all." The grey-haired man admitted with a roll of his eyes. "Does John know?"

Mycroft shook his head, shifting in his chair. This part made him uncomfortable. Especially now, as John's beta, he did not like discussing his weaknesses with those outside their pack. "Can you imagine the stress he would be under if he knew? He already almost broke down on me once. I have never seen him so close to an Omega Drop; Sherlock has never mentioned it either." He explained, shaking his head at the memory. John's cries had been horrible. It'd been his need for comfort that had initiated the bond. 

Poor daft John hadn't even noticed, he was remarkably unobservant when it came to himself. "He bonded to me for Christ's sake! If that doesn't indicate his need for some sort of stability, I do not know what does. No, without his alpha, and at his age, his chances of staying sane enough to keep the child are- were, limited. Not that John is not strong. He is holding up better than any other omega I know. I just watched him get slapped in the face and barely flinch." Even so, his thoughts were grim, John was a walking time-bomb of issues. 

Half the time, Sherlock was the only thing that held him together. The other half was just through sheer strength of will and tenacity. John was a bulldog of an omega, he'd make it, and he'd make a fantastic father, but without help, his chances were lower. Not that John was weak, or would not try his damnedest to keep the baby, but it was just biology at this point. Omegas were prone to difficult pregnancies. They were notoriously infertile, and the fact that John was pregnant at all was cause for celebration. If only it hadn't been shrouded in disaster from the start. Mycroft could help, now that John had claimed him, but he could not replace an alpha. Would never want to replace Sherlock. Alpha, beta, and omega dynamics did not work like that.  


There was a certain co-dependence between them all, but the alpha and omega were the primary pair in most instances, especially when they were attached in a romantic compacity.  


"This complicates things, now we have a pregnant, endangered omega. So it's pretty damn important we figure out where they've been taken," Lestrade admitted.

"Correct, and John's given us some clues."

"Somewhere secluded, maybe a countryside estate?"

"Newer, did you see that room? It is new money. That building has been manufactured to suit Eddington's needs. We are looking for construction projects that finished up recently. He has been running for years, so check the records for any building permits filed within the last five years at the least." Gregory was writing in his notebook, grunting his agreement. "You'll need to look into it for me, they'll be watching me too closely now. We can assume it is within 7 hours of John's last location."

Lestrade tapped his pencil to his chin, considering Mycroft's words. "That's a big area to cover. We have no way of knowing which way they went. Any camera activity from that time frame mysteriously vanished."

"Yes, I had thought that might be the case. He hacked into my camera's earlier today."

"Ugh, don't say that outloud Mycroft, I don't want to know what you do any more than you want to tell." Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the leather creaking under him. "Right, I can start looking for their location. Anything else?"

"That's it for now," Mycroft sighed, standing up so he could remove his waistcoat. "Thank you Lestrade, I'll help the best I can, but it's best if I stick to the background for the time being." He had no doubts he would be under surveillance from now on. Eddington would be keeping a close eye on him to make sure he was not renigging on their deal. If blackmail and threats could be called a deal.  


"Of course, I'll head home to the missus. Try to get some sleep, Mycroft. You'll need it." This time Mycroft allowed the comforting pat to his shoulder, nodding his thanks before showing his guest out. "We'll find a way." 

Mycroft felt apprehensive about their success. He worried, there had been little success in finding his brother up to now, that chances of getting to John as well were frustrating limited. He hoped so, if only to have his family back. They might be newly bonded, but he and John had somethings to resolve and discuss.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Readers! This fic is currently in the process of being rewritten. It was my very first fic, and I've learned a lot since I started it. Rereading it, it doesn't quite meet the quality I want, and since I want to actually finish it, I'm going to start reposting it sometime soon with a revised link provided. Until then, it will continue to wallow in its unfinished state. BUT! It's not forgotten, I do plan on completing it, and I'm working on the revised storyline so that I can do just that. 
> 
> I'll give the link once I start posting the new story!


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